The wasted years with little mastery-
a fool with motley talent freely spent.
The labored learning sorely builds lament.
A reject trapped in protohistory.
The darker scripts pervade my history,
as falling short of masters feeds torment.
While others freely run, I trudge cement.
Internal peace remains a mystery.
A kind word negates self-hate for a time-
The evil game of woven fetters strong
but challenged. Minimized skills turned sublime
like starlight piercing winter solstice rhyme.
It alters. Self- my biggest debtor long.
I owe faith and patience that I can climb.
Poetry Survivor: Italian Sonnet, trigger 15