He told one lie inside one sentence— A capital letter, a comma, a period— To stop the darts inside their eyes With tips of poison traced with flesh And ash From the man before.
He carried his lie like a shield— A bouche, an umbo, a coat of arms— To hide the head he held up high A posturing of dignity and pride But hidden Like a murderer walking free.
His arm was heavy with the weight— Sinews tearing, sweating, fatigued— So he told one more to add to the other Deflecting, like a reflection of fire And blinding Impending conclusions.
He picked up his finger like a steely blade— A quillon, a foible, a forte— To thrust accusations dripping with blood Into the flesh of the men within his reach But falling Below his cutting edge.
He grasped at a pain inside his chest— A palpitation, a flutter, a squeeze— To arrest the cardiac aberration That pumped with compassion And wrenched out His beating liability.
He opened his mouth and told one more— A series, a novel, a narrative— To let the drips of his life smear their faces With draining blood But lifeless His heart deflated like a balloon.
The chill of the air blew through his flesh And hardened his skin into Planks. No longer a He but now an It, It gathered the furs of the men At his feet And wrapped their death around His own.
It told one lie and built a fortress— An isolation, a prison, a cage— To insulate itself from the arrows It feared would leak its life But drained Its own instead.
The sun in parting crowns the west with flame,
A fleeting splendor yielded to the shade;
What morning gilded, dusk resumes in claim
And proves how brief the glory light hath made.
The season wanes, yet keeps its ancient round,
Its end enscrolled where first its course was writ;
What once lay lost in silence shall be found,
For time recalls what hearts would fain omit.
So doth the soul, when judgment draweth near,
Discern within its close the selfsame strain;
The first sweet note returns, though harsher, clear,
And strikes with weight the mortal breast again.
Each sunset speaks what day could not defend:
The way a thing began holds fast its end.
Jill Szoo Wilson, 10/25
Through slender branches shines the swollen star, A lantern hung upon this midnight’s crest. Its argent glow calls shadowed fields afar To bow in prayer, by silver calm caressed.
The fading canopy, with colors frail, Lets gilded light slip softly through the air. Each trembling bough becomes a fragile veil, That parts to show a vision rich and rare.
The orb ascends with majesty untamed, While earth beneath lies weary, bare, and still. Though time shall claim what autumn once had named, The moon restores the world with tender will.
So beauty dwells where silence weaves its art, And sows eternal wonder in the heart.
Jill Szoo Wilson, 10/25
I wrote this sonnet after gazing at the October supermoon, its light threading through thinning branches and the fading canopy of fall.
What once was whole is splitting at the seam, With roaring tongues that never find a word. Each stands alone, entranced by their own dream, While fear doth arm the gates with aim absurd.
The bridge between us withers into dust, A chasm wide where voices fade to air. Yet in our hearts still burns this ancient trust— The longing for a hand extending ear.
But how to reach when dread hath drawn the line? When walls are built of pride and weary doubt? We stand as statues, yearning for a sign, Yet know not how to call the silence out.
O break the curse—let all division cease, For love still speaks the only tongue of peace.
Jill Szoo Wilson 