Sonnet 11 - Futility

Plasmodesmata?! What sweet, sick sadist
would challenge me so? How to find comfort
in my pen when such a thing’s required? Dust
is all I know of it. I must resort

to prayer, I think. I pace my cold hallway
like a monk attending vespers, but no
serenity finds me this troubled day.
No merciful muse fights through darkness to

shed illumination. Translucent dreams?
Not for me - there are none that shine. I fear
imminent collapse of reason. It seems
I am not the bard I would be. So here

I stand alone against the poet’s charge:
How to wrest rhyme from ego grown too large?


Piratepurple’s challenge words: vesper, translucent, plasmodesmata, lapse, merciful, joy, comfort, serenity