Sonnet 41

  • The senses slowly stake the matters of the heart,
  • When to break, when to bleed, when to bark,
  • When to baste in the glory, to sate in the dark,
  • When to sing of imaginary art.
  • When to, whence to, where to embark,
  • Down a fertile river, travelled once before,
  • Sung by many the hymns of tempestuous lore,
  • Til the bridge arrives, there it tears apart.
  • An impasse bent to pause, shake, restart,
  • Any incense of rhythm, lost to a feeling of fervor,
  • Manic in cadence, a pulse for the precursor,
  • Drums echoing drums of love's counterpart.
  • A candid fear turns a vandal heart,
  • But one must now command, no time to restart.

Notes

Meh.

— Huy on