Sonnet 164

Black waves white-tipped with rage lash at the store
Exploding shrapnel spume on crags of grey,
Tall stalwart stones still silent, moist with tears,
Saturnine, strong, with nothing left to say;
Yet still the waves mete out unbridled pain
As if persistence might soon breach the wall;
Wroth tortured tantrum, seething, spite sustained,
Rebuffed in foam and shattered screams, they fall.
Oh life, oh love, oh hope, oh destiny!
What might I yet have done to have prevailed?
What pride resides in fool’s futility?
What providence should stand here unassailed?
So with pure might, ‘gainst savage stone I stand,
‘Til sweat and blood and tears grind stone to sand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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