Too Many Thoughts Syndrome

Sins accrue in the body
Wearing us inside out
Portending demise
Certain, triumphant.

The sun is coming.

It will reach me soon
Warmth bringing succor
As deep and real, lasting
As long as love.

My fingers are a mess.

Skin frays and blooms
With welling blood,
Rising to reveal reason’s
Just a passing jest.

Too many thoughts.

Words are the friend
You want desperately
To delineate meaning,
But garbles it instead.


Ode to the Sonnet

In absence of ought else to fix upon
The restless movements of a mind so full
Of sense that all too easily is gone
Astir to many far-flung fancies’ pull
A structure to which meaning may ahdere
Is needed, lest the dreams themselves devour
Overtaken by lassitude or fear
Abandoned in insidious drift of hours.
What form can remedy insistent pain
Of flames’ expansion in a finite breast
Transmute to boon what heretofore was bane
Provide right work to justify sound rest?
To thee I flee when other standards fail:
In time your banner will release avail.