24 Nov 2016 – Sonnet
Each stranded, clutching to his clump of soil,
we soar through night, the stars so far away.
The balance of our days are wasted toil
and want – from holding happiness at bay.
Each soul spins counterclockwise to the light –
the light too dull to break the ego’s hold.
This constant cursing libels life a blight;
to ceaseless song our thankless hearts stay cold.
Each day we march another mile towards death –
that Winner’s Line no cheering mobs acclaim –
as we, the great ungrateful, cling to breath,
unbending in entitlement and blame.
And yet, each moment offers us a choice:
to which of these two anthems we’ll give voice.