Tempested dandelions, dreams umbrellas,
their seamless glide seems highly frail and easy
in heady and inflated heights to mellow.
They trace around the paper sky of reasons.
The gods of ink pen in divine duellos.
Which word is right? What color is in season?
The writing thickens where the margins fell off,
the battle fields for jotted notes of vision
and penetrating body lines of silence.
The time is always right when love has courage
to free her world in words, disrobe the edges,
so thoughts could keep the light in balance.
Oh, sonnet bowels, in the blast of sorry
apprise my barely melted heart that ages.
March 26, 2013
Sonnet XXXI
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113032611774
Свидетельство о публикации №113032611774
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