The quiet roar of stillness in my dream
Invites the little songs to find a voice
Like fabric finds a bordered stitch, a seam
Or finds it never really had a choice
The way that stark precarity ascends
To other worlds above the damaged plain
I like the definition it defends
The etymology of tender pain
When little songs awaken in my heart
Then find their little way to where I write
I wonder if they end up where they start
They may not be true gods, and yet they might
They might proclaim divinity with grace
And dwell forever in a holy place.
This entry was posted on Wednesday, June 25th, 2025 at 11:15 am and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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