Sonnet Four

© 2016 Steve King

All rights reserved

Impossible it seems to find a way

that measures what so subtly resides

within the conscience and the patient heart.

I hoped these written findings would endow

new meaning for the questions sleeping there,

would plumb the riddles in those hidden parts,

the motives that still linger and appease,

that stoke false pride and obfuscate old cares.

I know I’ll never satisfy what’s true

with those tendentious spirits as my guides:

they burnish all illusion and remand

the record that I hoped would since abide. 

That easy road is ever on the rise,

and I must seek a pathway otherwise.

A new poem for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads
http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/