Turn poet blood to ink and share this moment.
The midnight oil burns, becomes an icon.
An eye, an open mine where rays are roaming,
keeps fostering a broken glass of mankind.
Two crystals hoard rough synonyms to comment
bold words of crossing lines and chords of striking.
The brightness gives me chills, connects, and foments
illicit spirits to intrigue my psyche.
All souls are birds. The cageless state forms legions
of those who shall sustain its sighs in candles
and featherbed for lonely eyes a salter.
Oh God, your grant is pectoral, a pigeon.
The midnight oil burns, becomes a cradle,
the breathless presence where a word is haltered.
March 1, 2011
Sonnet XXV
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111030108809
Свидетельство о публикации №111030108809
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wonderfully precise, rich in images, dense. I very much like the structure. Only the "oil" is in fact one syllable... it interferes.
Faithfully yours,
Кристина Эмо 29.05.2011 21:17 • Заявить о нарушении
Faithfully yours,
Кристина Эмо 29.05.2011 21:17 • Заявить о нарушении
Hello, Christine.
You’re absolutely right about the “oil”,
I had before:
“The midnight oil has burnt, became an icon”
Still debating with me and now more inclined to restore
The original thought.
Thank you so much,
IOUri
Юрий Лазирко 31.05.2011 05:41 Заявить о нарушении
You’re absolutely right about the “oil”,
I had before:
“The midnight oil has burnt, became an icon”
Still debating with me and now more inclined to restore
The original thought.
Thank you so much,
IOUri
Юрий Лазирко 31.05.2011 05:41 Заявить о нарушении