Sonnet 36
- It is the consequence, when the solitude sets,
- When the hollow tunes demure and fret,
- A stringless, posthumous, limitless debt,
- A phantom heart beating phantom threats.
- Of a love shaking, tossed aside, bound,
- Of a love that should not have been found,
- Of a love lost, of a love crossed,
- Of a love, a love, that should have no cost.
- But in that accost, that thrash against the past,
- That lasting impression, that basting iconoclast,
- Laid bare, someone in forever greed,
- Unresolute, crashing, sick with chaotic need.
- It is the consequence, when the independence sets,
- The end of a glory, the birth of reckless progress.
Notes
I love this one.
Was hanging out in my old college hood, Brentwood, at one of the few coffee shops I frequented, Coral Tree Cafe. It was rather late in the night, and only a few tables were milling about in quiet conversation. Me, teapot, notebook, pen, and a lot of nostalgic revelry.
Was mostly reminscing on events of nights, weeks, months prior. Was recalling a large shift in my understanding of myself from a Tokyo trip almost two years prior. Was plotting how I should pursue upcoming nights, weeks, months, years.
Baseline assumption that I've always known about myself, that I thrive off chaos, disruption, and breaking everything that's been good to me. I'm always aware when I'm in the process, and I know the consequences, but I continue to act in ways that throw whatever stability I've grown into mostly away.
But that's how I work. That's how I need to work. That's how I should always work.
Otherwise, there's no point.
— Huy on