Importantly you turn to face the thing
The thing that mocks your pain with gilded rage
It knows the words to every song you sing
Regardless of the way you flaunt your age
As young as any seed before it sprouts
As old as any wisdom in that seed
It knows the grief of all its ins and outs
It feels the callous charms of every need
Wait, wait. Go back. Go back to quatrain one
Lets talk of gilded rage and songs once more
A volta doesn’t mean a sonnet’s done
It only means that after comes before
Before the end of poetry we sell
The words that find their way to some new hell.
This entry was posted on Sunday, February 19th, 2023 at 10:13 pm and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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