The wretch

by danetreous

Supra-context — Apologies for the delay. My trackpad stopped working and I’ve been on a work trip for the last 4 weeks. Sonnets will continue flowing as I’m able.

Context — I’m fortunate not to have repeated contact with tortured people.

 

He did the thing he loved until the day

he died. The verve that animated flesh

that pushed his close ones off, forever weighed

in trauma in the minds of those he’d threshed.

For he was one whose kindest charity

in crowded room was silence, otherwise

an audience heard anger where it be

more prudent voice politeness. Bags were sized

as satchels hung below two pinprick eyes,

as if they carried lifetime’s victims tears,

the human rains that fell when his disguise

of nastiness fused mask to face with years.

His fingers fat from grasping for control,

too weak to win the war for placid soul.

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