All English Sonnets
Grievances are like some festering wounds,
More putrid and foul smelling than quagmire
They all reside in bones, their hunting ground,
And constant supplies of new blood, they require.
To try to win them is futile, no use,
By winsome smile or more familiar wink
Or loving kindness, warmth, subtle ruse,
All make them more revengeful , deeper sink.
So, in the crumbling bones they sit and feed
And make us holler, cry and wince in pain.
What unquenchable thirst in this indeed?
With every draught it sharpens and in vain.
Mere mortals, try to gather the remains
Of blessed marrow blown to smithereens.