as of now, i have a whole one poem that i am happy with. maybe more to come.
a sonnet. by Tony Pellum.
Encased in sooted monuments beneath
(with afternoons and coffeespoons on knees)
the golden crust of dirt from autumn leaf,
contains the lithograph of what's conceived.
Each canvassed moment I can only see
(secretly hoping you have seen the same)
below apathetic activity-
searching for one more of you in still-frame.
You'll hear my heart as the cycle completes
(freezing, I stare at the clock on the wall)
how can this fanciful orbit repeat
if 4 of 2 has not been passed at all?
Encased in plastic, cardboard, bubble wrap--
Stagnant mirage-- In nothing, time has passed.