The morning dawn awakes, so do I
I know this much does not change day to day.
In my journeys through the night I pass by
Field of memory I can’t keep they say.
One flower picked, and I’m accused a thief
Tell me, who’s the real owner of my field?
Of my own will, can’t keep one thought so brief,
Then by whose orders are these vault doors sealed?
Nighttime. No rest for the weary it seems.
Where journey after restless journey through
The confines of these labyrinthine dreams,
Leaves me not any closer to the truth.
These are dreams I won’t remember I fear,
I see there will be no rest for me here.
Posted in Personal, Sonnets
Tagged dawn, day, door, dream, journey, labyrinth, maze, poem, poetry, rest, thief, Travel, truth, vault, weary
These two shadows walking side by side,
I look for the figures casting them, but nothing do I find.
These lonely beings trapped here by some cruel trick of fate.
Some might say is unfair, but I’ll quickly debate,
The unknown reason by which these shadows go,
Is most likely beyond our grasp, so we’ll never know.
Wounded, wandering, the soldier limps home,
Hardly walking, yet one thing drives him on:
Her lovely face, her essence, calls his soul.
Though far away, he sees what gives him calm.
Long, cold nights fighting, now beaten and bruised.
Enough times said: “Yes sir!” He returns.
Knowing the path dark, why then did he choose?
It matters not now. Futile to confirm.
All of his recent thoughts now fade to dust,
New strength he’s found now her face remembered.
Only in her heart does he place his trust.
Why did he go to war? To defend her.
Finally home, on her neck, throwing arms,
It’s she that makes him glad, now safe from harm.
I Wrote this one after working a week on the graveyard shift at my job where I usually work 7Am-4Pm. I had volunteered to help some of my co-workers complete a few special projects on the graveyard shift and half way through the week I got sick. I caught one of those colds that makes your bones hurt and you know you should be home resting but on the other hand you have a job to do, so I pushed through and made it. I felt like crap when it was over, but I made it.
The poem describes mostly what I felt at the end of that week, but can be applied to any work day really. I usually tired, beat down, but as soon as I get home and walk through the door, seeing my wife and daughter makes it all worth while. Simply seeing them can turn a rotten day into a good one. So I dedicate this sonnet to my loving, lovely wife, and my wonderful daughter, without whom this life would be so much bleaker, dull, and not nearly worth as much.