The breathless presence, where a word is haltered,
my last Mohican hope, that’s all I merit.
This tenderness in voice it tends to falter
when verbs are preterit, less-to-disherit.
A summer pipe puffs innocence and alters
dreams’ pregnancy, induces to miscarry.
Build catacombs in empty chest to palter!
A moth of lips flies only when it’s scary.
Words’ mask lies over mask, dries on a palate,
abuts outcries, adjoins unworthy yeses,
describes a thorny road and starry prairie.
Whatever hides in catacombs call alate,
it makes me rake for ash to gray my tresses.
What crosses and enshrines a heart – don’t bury!
March 16, 2011
Sonnet XXVI
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2011
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Свидетельство о публикации №111031608510
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