Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Sonnet 6

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My heart’s design is faulted like them all;
It flutters trifles and for reasons fleet,
And, flushing, pumps, whene’er I blank recall
Your face – your face! – and when our eyes did meet.
Such tremors are not meant to be, I think,
For ribs won’t rattle, nor these lungs be shook;
Yet my anatomy for you goes brink,
Dragged edgeways by your knowing grin, swift took.
Distraction’s grown the norm since eye saw you,
And you saw I, and, seeing seen, was sawn;
My chest makes hope of balanced mind untrue,
With jolts inopportune as lover’s dawn.
So come, be near, let distant beats compare,
And inches fix what miles could not repair.

Urgh.  Don’t like that much at all.  The last six lines aren’t entirely cringeworthy, but overall…  Meh.  Hadn’t written a sonnet for a while, so thought I better jump back on that poetry wagon.

Shovelled some unexpected mulch for two and a half hours today.  That was fun.  And now, about fourteen hours later my shoulders and back are getting a bit sore.  Strange, that.  I fear that I will wake up tomorrow and think free movement a wild daydream of the past, tales that my static ancestors have passed down the generations…  (“They say that legs were used for walking, once, and that these things we call laps could disappear when we would, as they called it, ‘stand up’…”)

And now shall I sink to bed, and delve the bound papyrus known as The Luminaries.

Gosh I’m sounding pretentious tonight.  But I shan’t apologise, nosiree.


Written by epistemysics

November 1, 2013 at 2:50 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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