Sonnet - Breath

Dead of night. The sprawling city sleeps,

The only sounds my ever-aching bones;

Pain starts low, then upwardly it creeps, 

Then out my mouth in desperate cries and moans.

Which sin be mine, to earn such agony?

What deed so vile, to earn the Maker's scorn?

What purpose served by life in misery,

So horrid as to wish to ne'er been born?

Of course no answer comes. What would suffice?

That suffering is a part of Life's design,

Or that there be some painless Paradise?

If that be all, then why not jump the line?

Speak not of that. No victory in death;

A protest, then, in every weary breath.

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.