Nancy T. Jackson

Sunday Mourning

Time blisters and peels the gilt from another golden dawn.
The floor slopes, an added day’s distance from reach
Of the shelf where hope resides,
Preserved in solution with youth, ignorance, and lies.
But the light of day climbs with it’s deceptively caring touch,
And reveals the corruptive result of age and wisdom,
Against which there is no adequate seal.
The voice of reason is somewhere mired,
In the gelatinous silence of instinct,
To which the bulwark of better judgement always succumbs.
Defeat is swift, savage, decisive,
And I draw another breath.

Listen here: 


Nancy T. Jackson is a member of WGOT and an active poet. She resides in Greensboro.


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