The Toll of Time

Form: Beymorlin Sonnet

The mask that leaves identity behind
As songs of love echo the inner dead
The task of yearning for this, self-defined
In throngs that echo the hate they have said
The pain that never ends in darker dreams
Like rains of acid that burns on my skin
That chills my heart; my voice no longer screams
But stills; behind the mask I can begin
To talk of freedom with a sutured mouth
For in my silence I know I am strong
I walk the path to find enlightened growth
My grinning mask that says nothing is wrong
My soul is dead to all that bitter hate
The toll of time is mine and I shall wait.

©JG Farmer 2019

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