SONNET VII

SONNET VII

A Poem by Father Mojo

I claw at my sheets as sleep slips away,

Speaking words that betray hesitation.
Consciousness jostled me into the day
With no training and no preparation.
And the morning feels like an epitaph,
Or a promise never meant to be said.
The day is a slaughter. I am a calf
As I endeavor to rise from my bed.
I cannot keep track of each shattered dream,
Spilling like sand from my ears to the floor;
They are too many to count and they seem
To resemble dunes piled up at the shore.
I stagger upon this oceanless beach
Made up of dreams that were just out of reach.

© 2013 Father Mojo


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Added on February 11, 2008
Last Updated on August 9, 2013

Author

Father Mojo
Father Mojo

Carneys Point, NJ



About
"I gave food to the poor and they called me a saint; I asked why the poor have no food and they called me a communist. --- Dom Helder Camara" LoveMyProfile.com more..

Writing
WINTER WINTER

A Poem by Father Mojo