SONNET VII

Decaying I have been upon first breath,
awaiting ends to rhythms of my heart
which will, one day, expel the sounds of death,
and may those sounds play on within my art.
Eternity may seek to find my work,
but fathom, I cannot, there is no end,
for if within me prayer does somehow lurk,
beliefs of mine will break—not bend.
They are not pliable; no, they are stone,
well forged for many years by wind and rain—
that voice of pain and sadness found alone—
so if my head upturns, I’ve gone insane.
…I see my soul was nothing but a sigh,
becoming more of air and less of I.

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