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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Sonnet: Busy

Can I look, can I listen, can I speak?
Can I stop, can I walk, or can I run?
Can I fetch, can I put, or am I done?
Can I drop, can I gather, may I seek?

Will I lead, will I later, will I sneak?
Will I first, will I last, or will I shun?
Will I few, will I lots, or have I none?
Will I feed, will I wallow, am I bleak?

Must I find, must I forfeit, must I do?
Must I know, must I guess, or must I now?
Must I brave, must I cower, should I bow?
Must I glow, must I grimace, am I blue?

If I may, am I dower, did I stray?
Can I pray, for more hours, in the day?

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