The Visitor
by Bryant Vielman
In the throes of anguish, weak and distraught,
brooding as I was over transgressions wrought,
was my misery interrupted by a peculiar thought.
It is an attempt, no doubt, to stow my dismay,
though of its efficacy yet, I have nothing to say.
Crude, contorted, and reeking of rot
is this strange consolation which to me was brought.
But alas! here it stands nude and gory,
a potential truth stripped of glory--
“There, there,” it says with a cold, blank stare.
“Put down the load you unnecessarily bear.
Collect yourself and weep not
for it is not attributed to you the things that are naught.
Whether promises fulfilled, or transgressions wrought,
this was destined always to be your lot.”
brooding as I was over transgressions wrought,
was my misery interrupted by a peculiar thought.
It is an attempt, no doubt, to stow my dismay,
though of its efficacy yet, I have nothing to say.
Crude, contorted, and reeking of rot
is this strange consolation which to me was brought.
But alas! here it stands nude and gory,
a potential truth stripped of glory--
“There, there,” it says with a cold, blank stare.
“Put down the load you unnecessarily bear.
Collect yourself and weep not
for it is not attributed to you the things that are naught.
Whether promises fulfilled, or transgressions wrought,
this was destined always to be your lot.”
Bryant Vielman is a New York native of Guatemalan descent. He lives in North Carolina with his two sons, where he reads and writes as often as he can. He began writing poetry seven years ago.