Monday, July 29, 2013

V. 2, #123: July 29, 2013

It's not a night for writing poetry:
the day has beat me almost to a paste.
Ground me under its heel like cigarettes
that have no more to offer. I have spent
my store of thoughts on trinkets hardly worth
the toting home--code queries, database
designs. Not what you'd call a poet's dream.

So: not a night for looking in to see
 what's left. Such introspection is a waste
of time and muscle. Nothing but regrets
for days slipped through your hands, and where they went
no sage nor magus strolls upon this earth
can tell. But you can ask 'em, just in case.
Meanwhile, I'll sit here, trying not to scream.

1 comment:

Scott said...

I almost called this one a Mulligan, but I didn't simply because it's one of my "New Form" efforts (a rhyme scheme I debuted in this sonnet), and I admit I'm a little proud whenever I can bring one of those together. :)

Anyway, there it is.