The sky is sowing rays, an eye roots deeper,
exploring gaps between “I’m here” and wilted…
It seems no time for shades to dwindle steeper
for leaves stop dancing twist, their death is quilted
and xanthous to the bones. A breathful Dipper
draws out the painful words and leaves them stilted.
When dreams lose walls they could be seen as strippers.
When whiteness covers dirt, a wind pleads guilty
to nebulizing, lighting out for breeding.
Impelling souls, it marks its changeful margins
with striking blows and a minuscule fairness.
How’s good your “good”? How many “byes” succeed it?
The face of mine, a minefield, stays lethargic.
Catch Lethe’s flow in veins with your awareness.
December 30, 2010
Sonnet XVII
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110123100728
Свидетельство о публикации №110123100728
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