Sonnet 344

A living memory in a dying art
A message in a bottle tossed to sea
A simple wish upon a falling star
A hope on hope that shall not ever be.
Such is the passage of the mortal soul,
A traveler from and to but never there;
All worthy toil but for some nameless goal,
A destiny unsure but ever where….
Alone upon that solipsistic plain
Doubting reason, trusting not the mind,
Ethereal essence not of heart or brain
Clear of a purpose not quite yet defined;
A dance of particles on solar winds
Or yet the children of Elysium?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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