A World in Thirds
My exuberance is a sonnet in free verse:
Non-existent or painfully rebellious.
Strange as the butterfly in an earlobe.
Beating, beating. Enthusiast without cause.
Fifty fairy-tales of streetlights-and-starbrights that never were.
I am the hope in apathetic pentameter
Of a world playing dead for the critics.
Tick-tocking to the drum that cannot run down.
Beating, beating, in a fantasy of dead moths.
Five hundred fairy-tales of footprints and shadowloves that never are.
My revolt is a passive-aggressive ignorance.
A first-person-first-hand tense for a world in thirds.
Predicted indifference but spontaneous reality.
Singing, singing, because the wings don’t beat.
Five thousand fairy-tales of aberrant sonnets that never will be.
Non-existent or painfully rebellious.
Strange as the butterfly in an earlobe.
Beating, beating. Enthusiast without cause.
Fifty fairy-tales of streetlights-and-starbrights that never were.
I am the hope in apathetic pentameter
Of a world playing dead for the critics.
Tick-tocking to the drum that cannot run down.
Beating, beating, in a fantasy of dead moths.
Five hundred fairy-tales of footprints and shadowloves that never are.
My revolt is a passive-aggressive ignorance.
A first-person-first-hand tense for a world in thirds.
Predicted indifference but spontaneous reality.
Singing, singing, because the wings don’t beat.
Five thousand fairy-tales of aberrant sonnets that never will be.