And in the dark you crashed against the shore.
Your spectre drew in silver grains of sand,
pandanus fingers sliding through the core
worn hollow by the absence of command.
When folded flat and shadowed by taboo
too foolish to be followed, still its cold
rolls crookedly across the tale so few
true rhymers know: that poets don’t grow old.
They breathe the sun and stride across the sea
between the sombre soldier and the fey,
paid only in a world of yet-to-be:
the dreams of those who rail against the grey.
Though years may pass before you know your fate,
wait now impatient, suffer and create.
*I'm just playing about with forms here, this is what I think a hybrid conachlonn/sonnet should work out like -- hence the name
Your spectre drew in silver grains of sand,
pandanus fingers sliding through the core
worn hollow by the absence of command.
When folded flat and shadowed by taboo
too foolish to be followed, still its cold
rolls crookedly across the tale so few
true rhymers know: that poets don’t grow old.
They breathe the sun and stride across the sea
between the sombre soldier and the fey,
paid only in a world of yet-to-be:
the dreams of those who rail against the grey.
Though years may pass before you know your fate,
wait now impatient, suffer and create.
*I'm just playing about with forms here, this is what I think a hybrid conachlonn/sonnet should work out like -- hence the name
It could be worse




