Lucidity, Number 4
(A Weavers Sonnet)
My eardrum bounces words like tennis balls,
and gathers urns of grief with mournful walls.
Why must I wrestle with the weight of sound,
why do they lie there like a graveyard mound?
I yearn for substance in selected scripts
designed to frame and fix a furrowed brow;
I pull forth words to rest upon my lips
and dare to harness nouns or verbs to plow.
Yet somehow tangled meanings still occur.
Until the heavens’ gates are flung apart
and every star agleam begins to blur
may lyrics wrap themselves in action’s chart.
Artistic wings may wake a sleeping cur
and stitch the yarn in every reader’s fur.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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