Ben McKeown

Been too long… expect a full-fledged update soon.  For now, a sonnet I wrote last night.

Again tonight my heavy spirit spilled
beyond its brim a water - quiet, calm
saturating night with solemnness stilled,
to sing with tremor deep a dying psalm.

She motioned forward, asking of me: pass
but I’d squandered intention long before
the moment thus with rev’rence did amass
a sullen, unmistakable allure.

How awful then it seemed of night’s request
that I surrender plaintiveness to sleep
for I awake can tightly hold her lest
I wake, her absence comes, and fall to weep.

What in solitude might I never know
that selfish wont alone refused to grow?

- Ben