Sonnet July, 2025

A stage, laid bare there, basks in silent glow,

'Bov splintered floorboards breathes a vacuous womb. 

In listening quietly by the second row, 

Behold a waft of spirits swirls this tomb. 

And as o'er pavéd street at dusk

a bashful moon may peek out stormy cleft

to glint a puddle with an ivory tusk,

so sparks a character alit stage left.   

But fading -- signal soft -- there dissipates

The actor from my sight -- where go you now? 

Why not you stay, my hollowed gut abates

to see thy truth collect on humble brow.

Now, house doors open; feet come crashing hence. 

The spirits scatter, fearing slippery hands.