To find my shattered pieces in a year
Was more than hard; it took a strength I lost
But strength was next to beauty; both were near
The place I went to search and count the cost
Of how my shattered pieces seemed to be
The sum of everything I’d thought I had
But friends declared the pieces were not me
At least not all, nor were the pieces bad
Each quatrain, couplet, line . . . oh hell, each word
Was more than just a broken song I wrote
To say, “I am a sonnet” is absurd
It’s volta stops and sticks within my throat!
I find my shattered pieces on the ground
While metaphoric flowers grow around.