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