He Grew Exhausted of the Day
A broken sonnet to a broken man
Published in
1 min readSep 30, 2024
Adrift within our dark mirrored selves do we unveil
what was rotting in the mind of self-made hell.
The note that was never sent, signed by death in
the casket unbarred for the worms to sing
my uncle’s last idioms of fevered beliefs.
My father closed his hands around my arm,
scared, drunken tone: those tears will not return
the dead. I imagine a bullet in splintered wood
that only the dust knows why he would
in phantasmagoria of spiraled fate
be dealt the fatal hand in torn spades.
In memory, I see myself hanging up
the phone as he whispered, dismayed:
forgive me, for I grew exhausted of the day.
© Bradley J Nordell 2024
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