Sonnet I: It Comes

If ever I could spare a minute’s time,
I might enjoy a moment of the day.
A place where I might be forgotten, pray,
That I might run from here, or even climb

A mountain far away. Not Reason, Rhyme
Nor Deities could sway, nor could one pay
The world’s unyielding, universal clay,
That time should not be stolen. Such a crime

Continues on, beholden to no man,
With cruel impunity–continues on
Its prurience, as only Satan can–
And gives the poet grist to mill upon:
To sow, and reap, and dream of sweet release,
And then to sleep, and dream of death, and peace.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence: click here to read it all:

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