What in this man may I extol, truly?
Some say a man’s a beast plus a soul; but
When beasts don’t nip a nibble unduly,
Man craves a craving far beyond his gut.
His gaze on fleeting eyefuls fast fixates
Yet refuses his flaws the quickest glimpse.
With boiling blood, his tongue the whole world slates—
Till toiling’s entailed and he joins the wimps.
There’s always time to preach his own misery,
But none is spared for others in his way.
Soft are his ears for the faintest flattery,
To which no dumber beasts have fallen prey.
What in this flawed and frail may I extol—
Who’s more than a beast and less than a soul?
Sonnets have a special place in my heart, and I tend to write one every half a year (even before the start of this blog). Whilst caught in a season of retracing past steps (which I dubbed Uncreate), today’s poem has somewhat fallen short of the desired calibre taken by the likes of Poiesis (in which I concluded, quite ironically, that the will and ills of the poet alone define the verse)—and here’s the flawed and frail giving it away a year after. Hah.
p.s. The picture is a Blake’s. Guess who?
Photo Courtesy: Wikipedia