Within this bare-to-scream barrage to carry
the scents of light across a nailed through temple
feel gills of silence, filter mold and bury
decaying mass of terms your muse had trampled.
To skip a night young cherubim stop staring,
let chandelier tears slide and senses scramble.
Perception flows beyond the words mind’s wearing,
entwining mantras, losing roof… and rambles.
It’s followed by a heart, ambrosia searcher,
to find abrasives of the wind embedded
in sonnet lines, to share the twilight omen.
In prose the trace of poetry is nurtured,
creeps to the shrine in style, italic-headed.
Turn poet blood to ink and share this moment.
February 23, 2011
Sonnet XXIV
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111022308580
Свидетельство о публикации №111022308580
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