Sonnet 21

Now comes the parting, too soon I think, of soul and time’s connection

And Christmas’ youthful laughter gives way to adulthood’s science, like believing in a gift’s magical materialisation,

And these baleful clouds replace her by my Wharf, washing warmth away to memory, and sighs to Shivaic vapour,

And I am old with reason again, and the drone war rages on, and my third siege commences.
Yet there is the prophet’s rainbow, in the distance, yet there is God fooling around and being playful and awesome at once, abstracting and signing my folly.

Yet then there was me, so full of ingratitude, then greedy for life, and demanding more, devouring, with what daemon’s desire.

As above, so below, I wished with a Kabbalist’s mad rhyme: but I syllogise now, below, never above, not really, it’s just my melancholic misprison of mind,

And finally I approach the vessel, it’s just two steps away, and I am ready to purchase that passage.
Poetry signed me this direction, and love a signified flux and flow,

As philosophers say, signs and signification are fragile in their coincidence, and their marriage is a miracle of meaning, yet projection, yet fleeting, yet lost again with each cycle of karma.

And it was, ultimately, my vanity she denied, for vanity’s doubtful sincerity she turns from me,

And speaks as a stranger, and like a dream, my colourful fantasy of young returns, now it decays within my slow to fade portrait.

Oh this Wintery Spring, embers of irony run across my weary brain,

And the sun sets upon my trek, and I desire only sleep, though dreams cease to arrive.

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