Truth

A third and final poem inspired by the Odyssey. Are you bored by this trend, yet? This one is based on line 181 of book 24, the last book of the epic poem, and follows the same loose-sonnet form I used in 'Spring Morning.'

Truth

You fired bolts of groaning from your bow

and found your mark within a weaker frame,

entrenched, expectant of a violent blow,

yet unprepared the moment that it came

and caught the breast to cut it deep, just so,

and still the sighing breath that drew your aim.

So now, as soil saps the running tide

of crimson, pulse and pound, up from the cleft,

a fatal hope fast finds itself denied

and wonders what desire might be left,

when, with a touch, the waking heart has died

and left behind a shell, of life, bereft.

But yours is not the burden, nor the blame,

for truth cannot be reckoned as a theft.