I Find No Peace

I find no peace, and all my war is done.
My life was never loud, but now in quiet
I’ve been reduced to reading Thomas Wyatt
For comfort. Ah, but comfort there is none.
One sonnet ends, another is begun
And ends too soon, a veritable riot
Of unwashed food for thought, a rotten diet
Disgraceful, full of everything but sun.

Without eyes I see, without tongue complain,
This dank, dark place a prison of my mind,
An empty space to which I’ve been assigned
In mercy’s absence, nothing left to gain
Or lose, but only misery and pain.
I’ve been unwise, while you have been unkind.