Elegant poem of adamantine grace,
the platinum sheen of celestial lace
adorned for the few who value its gains.
I am taking this sonnet by surprise
and gaining high altitude. Hear my Sighs
How do I drop you without gravity, how make you an Iamb of red and gold?
Housecleaning the memory of dust and mold,
I ask and in reply, a bleak bird squeeks.
Go! airborne inertia of slavish design!
I am in flight and my feathers are singed,
once and twice and five times. Rhythmic Rhymes
sounds that cross, pass, and entwine in my verbs,
I will I will I will land this line in good Time.
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