Sonnet July, 2025

Atop a stage, o'erlooking theatregoers, 

My voice orates and prostitutes in gesture. 

An inward flame from stomach bowels roars,

Ignited by direction from a stranger. 

Two watchers sit, the first in front below, 

From there, she claps up strings to hook my joints. 

There hemming praise; there hawing sham to blow

And flat my linear rhythms into points. 

Another, tucked in back, she cuts right through 

The threaded lies which dangle me o'er woe. 

She smiles at just how deep my waters brew, 

And limpy ripples from pinky toe.

Thus caught in double-audience do I act. 

For one who'll drown, the other who'll all time last. 

**Through/Brew --> Snips/Abyss