08 Aug 2017 – Sonnet

Are there mirages mixed in mother’s milk?
Where else would we imbibe such baseless dreams
that take us years to purge – persistent ilk,
unrealistic hopes – mad wistful schemes.
I once believed a “gifted” man would “know”
as soon as he encountered his truth path,
and meet with no resistance, no plateaus,
or swamps of doubt, no second-guessers bath!
The days are dark, there’s thunder in the air,
and I revile the day that I was born!
Beyond my reach lie all for which I care,
and struggle mocks my greatest goals to scorn!
Why then, when even hope itself has ceased,
does pressing on bring such a sense of peace?