Sonnet 312

The world awash in petty poetry
Where words in simple rhythm make their stand,
As bootless wreckage jouncing on the sea
Too few do seem of worth when they make land;
Like flotsam of the tide they lie in rune
And hinder such sweet passage to the shore,
Daft jumbled voices singing out of tune
Resembling more a sea shell’s muted roar.
Yet human echoes strewn upon the beach
Do mark the musings of the common soul
And to the nomad, searching each to each,
Find relics there of happiness and woe.
In ink, therefore, I craft another dross,
And to the waves of time, this jetsam toss.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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