Phillip Garcia Poet Italian Sonnet

Sacred Burial Ground

Once, in a thought, it seemed how everything
stood without color, either black or white
or marbled grey, were sparrows tipped in flight
then pitched to the barn by a bastard wing
as feed for that, that unthinkable thing,
that thing which hunts and haunts confounded night,
and taunts with words, good morning, impolite,
on afternoons left without anything.
And in that thought, I think, I ceased to be
a thinker, but a thoughtless totem-pole,
stacked to the measure of deformity
forced on my feathered friends if lacked a soul,
their judgment passed at trial exclusively
not by a robe, but pigeon shot and coal.

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Craig Cornish December 23, 2018 at 9:10 PM You have exceptional talent Phillip, yet exist in obscurity here, but keep up the great work. It is mostly average that is celebrated on this and many other sites but poems like you write will live far beyond theirs. Phillip Garcia December 23, 2018 at 9:13 PM You flatter me, Craig, but I certainly appreciate your words. I figure it's all average otherwise it wouldn't languish in obscurity. :) Thanks again!