Sunday Sonnet [with Altered Rhyme Scheme], #25, 2015

[Image from Shutterstock]

Earth crumbling through fingers, each particle

a piece of a soul gone before. The dead

never leave us, he thought. Too quick to kill,

the human race. More solid, more instead

like stone, like rock, man should be, as mind will

not let one forget when life is taken.

Regret stays, haunts, for a long time – until

the thief of breath his own last takes, shaken

by the karmic cycle; truth of vengeance

spiritual. Written in the stars. How

wrong he had been, how naive. His penance,

he saw, would be to suffer a hindrance

to memory’s oblivion, work and plough

away the pain. With his demons ever dance.