Brexit Sonnet No. 50 – ‘Where will this end?’

So where will this end, this turgid crunch of truth?
These plastic straws that break our crumbling back.
This extraction, of healthy growing tooth
From solid jaw that hath no single crack.
I predicteth not, it’s foolish feckless waste
To chart a course of hapless drifting ship.
The end from me is hid, but tears I taste,
As from newly opened eyes they drip.
Little I do, but use the words I’ve got.
‘Spur my proud horse hard, and ride in blood’?
No, I write and with honour, patient plot
My course starlit, atop of flying scud.
‘Mine honour is my life; both grow in one;
Take honour from me, and my life is done.’

©Keith Murphy