Poem-A-Day: Day 3

Sonnet #38 (Tract on Writing)

Somewhere deep in stratospheric thinking
sits dishevelment unraveled, sinking
down in levels similar to stinking
calloused eyes. There, among the transient
sallow moments and people not quite there;
a briskly floating bubble cast on air
that’s waiting for the pop to leave its prayer,
So something more is left for permanent.
It’s not perceived as sad, because it’s lust
that drives the passion to be printed, thrust
in between the sheets, making moments bust
forth from wicked, wild splendor salient.
The time that fades to shade from day to day
is nary thought a wasted word bouquet.