Sunday Sonnet!

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Beset by wilful demons of delight,
Two tiny tods of sniggering childhood imps
Indulge their trip into fantasmal flight,
While chattering foursome, sullen adult whimps,
Lament events in gravely troubled world,
Exacerbating personal state of stress;
So little is achieved with brickbats hurled,
Futility of toil is served, no less.
Shall ever human kind revert to sense,
A cry, so often heard abroad these days,
Shall ever vulnerable secure defence,
Lest equity into oblivion gaze?
Some find themselves so far removed from Care,
Even beyond the reach of distant Prayer!

©Meanderings 2018

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