Wednesday, February 29, 2012

sonnet seventy four

here is what we will never be:
a meantime, in passing,
a figment, temporary,
a battle, never to be won,

a dream, tainted and unrealized,
dawns consumed by the impatience
of the sun, or ink that dries
on parchment dissolved in memory -

never will we allow
regrets to spill without
trying or without resurrecting,

never will we create and
sabotage, or breathe and
shackle, we will only remain.

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