Sonnet uncompleted
Tonight I ran, and cursed this aging frame
each mile run cursing harder than the last
each breath more labored, every pace the same
and sorry degradation, milestones passed
chained to my ankles. Streetlit sky a sieve,
the sodden city noise damping my ears,
I ran halting, frustrated, tentative.
Each draught of burning lung betrayed my years.
What point is there to this? This city but
a straitjacket, a hundred yards of gauze
I’ve wrapped me in, like xylocaine for thought
that swells uncomfortably against what was.
Comments
I think I know what you mean. I wrote this last summer:
Juxtaposition
Ragged leaves hanging limp in the heat
Hole-y and spotted against the steely sky
The delicate shades of living green
Dark green, light green, bright green, bless my eyes
Relieving the pain of metal and pavement
Wafting a hint of oxygen my way
as they tremble in a passing breeze . . . .. . . . swan . . . .
Wanker. Just wait until a knee gives out. If I could write poetry (or even write, period) you’d be in tears. I dream of “halting, frustrated, tentative”.
Still. Nice.
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