Sonnet: Who I Am

(for a project in which I was supposed to describe my existential self or who I am in an existential manner or some convoluted thing like that. i sort of preferred not to answer the question)

 

You’d ask me who I am, and how I’d know.

You’d ask me what material weaves my soul?

There are few depths and lengths to which I’d go;

My mind is not tame yard or shallow shoal.

My lock is not a keyed and open door

For any man to rest his curious eyes.

My stock is not new made in earthly forge;

I am no weapon when the battle flies.

My barrel is not straight and gleaming bright.

I hold myself against no poor man’s head.

Shuttle and loom are my weapons, my pride.

You pierce my peace with loaded balls of lead.

In time, and without deadly mortal tools,

I may discover this, the quest of fools.

Observance

She was a virtuoso in her brazen composure

Suspicious, the tilt of her head as she bent over the missal
So visible, so vividly volatile

Like a breath of steam straining to be foam

Like sea-foam spray craving to rush

To rush and cry over the very rocks, mired in their steadfast prayers

Wary of watching eyes, she became a sculpture

The lines of her back fluid and clear

Her profile focused, her outline intense

Skimming inquiry through a blurring lens

The wind will soon blow her away.

The Written Word

I call it the word, he proudly said,

A beam attending the silvered eye.

“Why it’s but stick-scratched ground, dusty and dead!”

Their judgment passed harsh and high.

 

I call it the word! he called out far.

The sound danced bright between the cliffs.

“Why, it’s river clay, a dust-rock-shard!”

Their judgment passed clean and stiff.

 

I call it the WORD, he protested,

He pressed the proof into their hands.

“Black blood and reeds!”, they laughed and tested

Their judgment on miraged sand.

 

I call it… the word, he weakly whispered.

The word, my word, my gift, my own.

But they crept behind, all softly slippered,

And with judging hands slit his throat.