Whilst getting used to words, as to a dungeon,
I muse. Like ashes in a hearth or swishes,
remembrance makes a shroud of paper grungy.
Some thoughts die burst in inks and some are wishes.
They spread out widely as lianas’ branches,
inlaid in lines, like skin on lasts in stitches.
And maybe Peace becomes the one who stanches…
Your spear is welcomed as the word that preaches.
The sky is out of wearing a straitjacket.
I hear some native voice. It is escaping
and fondling rhymes till they replete with glosses.
It flows down in the tears to find two brackets
between the “losing hopes” and “being happy”.
The thoughts are broken up, as knees on crosses.
July 21, 2009
Sonnet I
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109072200692
Свидетельство о публикации №109072200692
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