Sonnet 532

Quite then a traveler between birth and death,
That odyssey of hope and dreams deemed life;
From primal scream until the final breath,
A pilgrimage replete with bloody strife;
A gauntlet there of tribulation run
So beaten, bound, by every word disgraced;
More battles seeming lost than those fair won
And even night’s reprieve by fret defaced.
Yet comes the morning with the waxing light
To vanquish shadows and to spirits warm,
Slaying dragons that beset the night,
Salving worn souls in faith’s eternal balm.
Here though I greet the world with gaze distrait,
I look on you and grant that hell can wait.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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