4:08 p.m. — Atlanta
I know: it has been a while since you have seen a post with a poem, but Tony Maude’s prompt, over at dVerse, tickled me. I discovered the iambic was no problem but my brain likes eight, rather than ten, syllables. I wasn’t about to argue.The result is rough and ready, but I had fun. If you haven’t been over, go check it out and give this form a try.
A Dark Side
Again my life’s in overdrive —
I strive to see the other side,
but lack the day — it’s always night
and always I know one who’s lied.
I live that I might make a wage
and yet if that is all I’ve saved
what kind of life will I have made?
Then, in the mirror can I face
that which in my soul I nurse?
I worship in a different church
but that is not what I find worse,
the constant filling of the purse;
it’s rather, now, when I look back
I won’t have found it worth all that.