Friday, August 26, 2016

Weep, a poem


If I cry, then I shall cry
as a hero, as Achilles
mourned Patroclus at the brooding
Trojan walls. Weep honestly,

openly, and then be done.
Who forbids my grief? No god —
they are made of human tears,
tears we set upon their journey

to the heavens. Only men,
only fools, deny their tears,
hoard them in their grasping hearts,
fear to set them free. Tomorrow

comes; the sun shall rise anew
for each man who wept today.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

In somewhat strict form, metrically speaking. Like a sonnet in its number of lines but no other respect!

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