If I could see Sorry for what he is–
If I could unmask his delicate ruse–
Would I discover his loving caress?
Or fragile bones too feeble to use?
Does Sorry convey the deepest regret,
Dressed as a mourner in funeral dance?
Is Sorry sweet honey for aching distress
Who whispers at every possible chance?
Is Sorry a lover? Is he a sham?
He’s spoken so often, or never at all–
Is he the weakness for which we’re all damned?
Or does it take strength to answer his call?
Sorry, himself, waits mutely alone
Speaking forever, or silent as stone.
Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021
