Thursday, January 27, 2011

A Sonnet

There is in human hearts a desire so
Profound, yet goes by but one name. A sage
Long gone said, “Our hearts are restless,” (we know)
“Until they find their rest in you.” Old age
May tell its truth; yet, with no words to form
A meaningful account. A gaping hole
Too vast to fill. Religion, to perform
A function necessary, a good role,
Tries its best. It fails; the labor too great.
A chasm filled with child’s bucket and spade!
No wonder, tender souls soon learn to hate
Its pretences. A game so badly played
Is abandoned as futile. The end of
Longing is still to long in hope for love.

Andy Fitz-Gibbon, December 3 2008.