After Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 13'
Words are misunderstood, all the maps that are
drawn out are faulty. I am moving alive
and through the world's mind, see the sky prepare
itself for day. I open my arms up to give
the atmosphere an architecture, to lease
my body as an instrument that we hear
to a far greater being. My heart has ceased
to beat, the veins can no longer seem to bear
the pressure of their passion. Music decays
in individualistic modernism, I fight to hold
the place of the austere, to grace the day
with forms as beautiful as her. I face the cold
and critical wind, at least in meter I know
I am understood. Or at least I think so?
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