Sonnet XXXIX: On Advent – VI

I wait for joy – again – this year, I wait.
Some days it seems that joy will never come.
Days past – beheld – then watched it lost to fate
And stood at graveside cold, all senses numb.
I’d never claim a joyless life I’ve led;
Although at times I hang by fraying rope.
The dark of night need not descend to dread;
Remembered bliss doth dare to proffer hope.
Fair hope, another “gift” that oft evades;
Once dashed I find ’tis hard to resurrect.
The knives which cut with ever sharper blades
Demand procession far more circumspect
I wait for joy – again – this year, I wait
And pray arrival’s not one moment late.


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