But now, oh ho, but not, oh no. It speaks
And drills the hour at hand. It’s not to see.
It’s not to be. It’s time to grip, not flee.
A mold of white. A golden bite. With beaks
And lights with parried fight. Again unseats.
Again repeats. Its quick philosophy
That rails and bucks down in the muck. It breathes
And fails. It cannot be this time for me.
A twist, a turn, and searing burn. A light
In blackest grey. It’s like the morning sun
To dawn: it breaks. A cracking sound to ear
And now it is, it can, it will: It’s mine.
The colors all alight. The colors run
So bright. So bright, they burn in scar, they sear.
I tried. But I still like this sonnet I wrote on Day 10 much more.