Sonnettics

What father leaves his child with a witch?
By Setebos I curse the wretch to hell
The wretch will from humanity unhitch
The wretch becomes a story I must tell

By Setebos we live before we die
To live or die is often quite the same
Each life is but the telling of a lie
A lie which knows that truth is just a game

Play on, play on, we’ll die in wretched time
What father leaves his child with a witch?
By Setebos you recognize the crime
The players come and go; with you they switch

With Sycorax the witch you had your fun
Your Caliban exists in everyone.

At night I close my eyes and thus go blind
I hope when I wake up I’ll see the light
It seems I always do; I always find
My blindness only lasts throughout the night

Sometimes when I go blind I live my dreams
Sometimes the Mares of Night assault my peace
When I go blind, reality, it seems
Is lost as subtle fantasies increase

It’s only sight, they say; it’s just one sense
We all go blind at times; sometimes it’s choice
At times the thought of darkness is intense
At times it seems my blindness finds a voice

You see the noise that lingers in your mind?
The noise of darkened dreams proclaims me blind.

I watch the streams of smoke as I exhale
They show me words I never knew I knew
They seem to know the breath they would regale
The breath, the smoke, a wispy grayish blue

The streams of smoke are remnants of a gift
A gift from Mother Earth who loves to give
I watch them rise above; I watch them lift
Above the earth, where stories often live

The stories of the smoke begets the streams
(Who says “begets” unless they’re fuckin’ high)
The stories fill the smoke with more than dreams
And dreams of smoke will lift us by and by

It makes no sense, these things of which we spoke
But sense is not the realm of streams of smoke.