Sonnet C

You read about the Pillars of Creation

a place where a star is born

in a magazine next to the PlayStation

on your son’s bedroom floor ― amongst torn

Notelets and tangled headphones and chord.

The tinny sound of an old Verve song,

… don’t sound like no sonnet, My Lord.

The view from your son’s window ― long

sky ashen-white, trees spider webbed and stark

a blank canvass, days dull and lifeless

strength sapped, hurtling towards the same dark

the same hum drum of the keyboard’s caress

the monotonous screen, a little white lie ―

his heart beating fast, as he writes across the sky.


Rachel Burns


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