Up On The Wings Of Storms

Slumped idle scarce we sit, nor breathe easy, On kissing coasts, content never we coo, Nor crow, we struggled in a stormy sea, Soon as we shed sour sweat, go for goals new. Ever ready on a high tide to rise, Like naught else be these joys to us in world, Resting on laurels we never sit wise, Of rare clay we are made as yet un-stirred. To pray that storms may cease is not our mark, Nor middle ground is what we ever make, We look at gale's red eye and call its lark, In troubled waters, devils do we rake. It's not in us to breathe shallow at home, Strange joys O jostle us wrapt in a storm. __________________________________________________ Sonnets | 02.09.14 |