15 Oct 2015 – Sonnet

It’s funny, how we tend to hold our breath
the closer we approach the speed of light;
that distant threshold we equate with death
embraces what we’ve chosen, holds it tight,
for any step then taken must consume
eternity – the inconvenient wrap
of time discarded to reveal the bloom
we nurtured by our choices, and the sap
we nursed at – shown. Walk any nursing home,
the inmates only of two types – those who
are joy incarnate, though through darkness roam,
and all who roil in wormwood’s bitter stew.
Each long-forgotten choice of grace or rage
returns, full-grown, to write their final page.