Sonnet/impromptu_Oct23

 Sonnet

Hold – my heart into your hands 

at the watch of the fearful Hare. In between us 

there is nothing but a butchering adorned. 

Oh, my mother, you’ve not spared me of derogatory scorn. 

O, my mother, you’ve Not seen Me, neither whole nor as a ghoul.

Hold – my prayer, 

comes in pieces, 

never abstract nor commune. 

As in pieces so in matter, 

let alone our darkest moon.

Hold – 

a dagger & a minor preacher’s death. 

In the future this will be It, 

all for butter and for bread.

Our mission’s been achieved, 

to commence to gather words; but don’t cover, not the minimum --- 

of the batter of the birds.