La Mort

(sonnet)

These lands are cast in crows and wakened ghosts,
Dispersions of sequential death invoked,
Ethereal as smoke of failures’ boasts,
In turns to free my harbored weapon’s stroke.

Alone and masked in highwayman’s array,
I’ve spent my life at crossroads’ wayward hides.
A life, in thousand flowing wounds, gives way,
As rest evades and angel’s hope resides.

I seek the solace of that hidden place,
That once held open joy in mouth’s approve.
To take me in that sanctuary’s grace,
And in that holy space my stain remove.

Let angel heaven’s open mercy show,
That I, my offering, may full bestow.