Thursday, January 21, 2010


Weary to the bone,
Sisyphus rolling his stone,
Unable to atone
For my sins.
Heart within my breast
Holds darkness unconfessed;
I can find no rest,
My world spins.

My act of contrition
Goes unsaid;
Pride remains,
All else is fled.
Place its crown
Upon my head;
It's all that's left,
It's all that's left.

All that I forgot
Haunts me in this place,
A land where I can not
Hide my face.
Each deed I have done
Renounced a state of grace,
Brought me here to run
My endless race.

My act of contrition
Still unsaid,
Heavy crown
Still on my head.
Make me king
Of the dead,
It's all that's left,
It's all that's left.

Stephen Brooke ©2010

You can call it a poem, should you wish; after all, a song lyric is a form of poetry. Much of the time, with my stuff, it may be hard to say where lyrics end and 'book poetry' begins but it would seem more obvious here. Have no idea whether I'll ever do anything with it.

No comments: