746. O cruel blush that paints my cheeks so red,

SONNET 746
By JH Sayyar
O cruel blush that paints my cheeks so red,
When folly’s hand hath danced upon my stage,
A slip of tongue, or something dumbly said,
Turns fleeting time into a cage of rage
The silent room, a thousand eyes I feel,
Though most forget what I shall not erase—
Each glance imagined strikes with sharp steel,
And shame writes scripts upon my burning face.
Yet is not life a poor jest of awkward days,
A play of stumbles, fumbles, and mischance
Even the proud must walk through clumsy haze,
And trip while wearing wisdom’s finest pants.

So let me laugh at self without disguise,
For grace is born when foolish moments rise