Sonnettics

The art of Fall succumbs to Winter’s paint
Like sand succumbs to gravity and time
It falls within the glass, without complaint
Like snowflakes or a couplet’s perfect rhyme
Time knows it’s just a wheel that turns around
It knows that Winter only lasts ’til Spring
And so it sprinkles snowflakes on the ground
Then turns and knows the moisture they will bring
When Helios returns with warming rays
To melt the snow and hydrate Mother Earth
Her seeds will wait through snowy Winter days
Until time turns to Spring, the time of birth
It seems like Spring was not so long ago
When time turns cold and coats the world with snow.

Absurd psychosis lets the id employ
Illusions and delusions in the night
And though they may be visions we enjoy
They may not harm our psyche, but they might
When metaphors become reality
Like poor Ophelia’s flowers by the brook
They blossom into life’s finality
In sleep we’ll see the their symbols if we’ll look
And when we wake, the albas we’ve enjoyed
Or nightmares which we fear have disappeared
The darkness, by the sun will be destroyed
Bright normalcy will dawn to be revered
Psychosis may not be our poem’s scheme
It might just lead to life, perchance to dream.

To ask a question, one must seek the truth
To answer, one must have the truth to share
Not like some rash and troubled, moody youth
Who wonders, “sagely,” who would fardles bear?

If death is just the end of troubled life
Who wouldn’t choose to end his life, to die
And if we burn in Hell to end our strife
Then joy in life must be a godly lie

Soliloquys are just some play-ful lines
Like bible words that say the Word is God
When Hamlet speaks, he mutters and opines
His blasphemy, and yet, we all applaud

If words are truth, and truth will set us free
We all should ask: to be, or not to be?

It’s true that I survived that awful day
But why I lived, I’ll never really know
Come say whatever words you want to say
They’re only words, and life’s a simple show
It’s simple in complexity like mine
Complexity is simple when we die
Like water that’s converted into wine
Or Death, who nods and simply passes by
The pain of life persists through time, unmatched
When numbness chimes like bells in towered nerves
My shattered bones have all been mended, patched
My poetry finds words my tale deserves
No day is worse than any other day
And life is just a word we find clichè.

It could have been the second paragraph
When something formed synaptically within
her heart. It could have been the second half
of this: “compelled to watch, itself a sin.”

She knew it was a story, thus, a lie
and yet, she let the story touch her soul
like god, who never gave her prayers reply
surrendering her will to his control.

The words were all familiar to her mind
Each syllable performed its rhythmic dance
the same as when the letters first combined
though different than her present circumstance

It could have been the second, or the first
that brought her to this literary thirst.