Sonnet 15 – Pain Inflicts Pain
A small, but constant ache can nag a soul
Just like the dripping water sets on edge,
Until his patience, taxed, fails muster-roll,
And irritation flares to drive a wedge.
A wounded dog may bite the hand that feeds,
A snarl rising from his anguished throat;
The inward pain revealed by outward bleeds
And then passed on as one would pass a note.
Poor brute – he cannot reason why he turns
From love one moment to a madness next
Like weather changes with a shift in wind,
Like mood swings sour from a Dear John text.
It’s often hurt that makes one growl and bite;
Men must, in pain, still treat the other right.
© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.