Not Quite a Sonnet

I can weep without a sound -

much practice builds the skill.

Things are always coming unwound,

and it seems it's all uphill.

Fairy tales come seldom true

and my branches all are barren:

Here there is no succulent fruit

to quench a throat Saharan

where so many words have gone to die,

their remains like sand within.

Are you a wolf after all this time?

Can I see beneath your sheepskin?

Falling from your mouth, words like darts

Pierce me through! O, for kinder hearts...

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info@ajoyfulpassage.com