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.