After much time spent with jumbled thoughts and two-and-a-half pages of free-writing, I arrive two days later at another somewhat self-referential poem. But I’m more partial to this one, as it manifested itself as a sonnet, a form which I admire. So Day 23, Poem Twenty-Two:
If muses dance between my thoughts and fly
my bid to trace their movements on the page,
as iris-wings, whose course bespeckles skies
with blinking hues afloat on blissful rays,
elude the nets and jars of greedy Books
whose walls are trimmed in colors bound and still
behind thin glass, affixed by pins and hooks,
I cannot say my heart would wish them ill.
For how could inspiration disagree
with butterflies, whose mercy is the wind,
when both are Beauty’s breath and rightly free
from selfish minds whose zeal would see them pinned?
And so I seek a fair accord of peace
to share their worth by capture and release.
As a note, those two-and-a-fraction pages of unused words will likely make their appearances soon, hopefully somewhat more distilled.