A sonnet to Scorn


Turns out I can also put some blog poetry up. Who knew? Scathing criticism always welcome šŸ˜‰

Dry Scorn, hone thy sharp blade, whetted ‘gainst me

Stock-still I stand, you have torn me apart

Scoring fine rivers through my face with glee

As I falter, riposte, tongue fails my heart.

So Scorn, be thou, yet thy dry time must turn

And Kind and Care leap up o’er horizon

Like a newborn morn that heralds the sun

Mur’dring the tempered wit you rely on.

Let my Sadness trickle down lonely face

Till, touching my lips, force a wider grin

That banish the taint of Scorn, saving Grace

And turn me from dark hell to bright Hea’en.

No more shall Dry Scorn rant ‘gainst listening ears

Rather fall deaf as laughter fulfill my years

Kind Regards


Categories: Poetry


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