An Italian/Petrarchan (aka the ABBA2-CDE2 type) sonnet I wrote a few moments ago. It’s a conversation with myself. :p
The clock’s secondhand robbed us of the second chance
Of reliving our smaller histories, that map of scars on hearts and skins
And when we chased the paper futures our synthetic pasts enhance
We tripped and slipped onto the pavements where the present begins.
When the carols are fading out, when the wine are all but imbibed;
Are you going to be there, beneath the afterimage of the colored lights?
The dying cranes carrying our hopes will flutter down like broken kites
If you mutter all the words in the breeze you have always scribed.
Pick up the flattened beer crowns from the urchin’s little tambourine;
We will need it in our journey to Morpheus’ basements,
And their little chimes will remind us to hearken each other’s footfalls.
The moon is a disc in our faraway tomorrow, so low and so serene;
We will just follow its cobblestoned paths before He made the arrangements.
Christmas has already passed, and we’ll wait till the whistle of the next one calls.
-Airiz Casta © December 2011