Sonnet 312

The world’s awash in middling poetry
Where words of questioned rhythm make their stand,
As bootless wreckage jouncing on the sea,
Too few yet seem of worth when they make land;
Like flotsam of the tide they lie in rune
Their motley measure cluttering up the shore,
Daft jumbled voices singing out of tune
Resembling more a sea shell’s raucous roar.
Yet human echoes strewn upon the beach
Do mark mean 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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