Poem 090, Sonnet 42: The Scare Poem by Samer Madbak

Sweet Mother, there is nothing I can tell,
My love is past the bound’ries of expression
And if I lisp, my terms are ill digression
A stray account of me, a wasted yell,
Mother I have relinquished all to dwell
On lucid moments (making full secession
From this mêlée) to feed on my depression
And draw my pleasure from the coals of Hell.
Nay! Nothing I may add and all there is;
A morbid ache, a torrid fantasy,
A maddened heart that ever dreams of bliss
And craves for godhood and your Majesty.
All there is, is the scare, the fell alarm
The chance that I may ne’er relive your charm!


Adelaide
February 23rd 1992