The Impatient
An Ekphrastic Sonnet
Perhaps the new law will not come at all
Our prophet may be mad, or sore deceived;
How shall we live? What is the protocol?
What is this fearful freedom we've received?
Heavy was the yoke of our enslavement
Miraculous our stroll between the sea
Now liberty smells like imprisonment
Where is the voice that tells us who to be?
Gold still has power in this mad desert
Our whirling, sweating forms pulse with new life
To the cult of its gleaming eye, convert
And in its name, slice young throats with your knife
Come dance with us, around our god of gold
Wealth merits worship; all else has grown cold
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also become a paid subscriber, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.