Non-Sense [sonnet]

Posted on Updated on


When you’re not around not one thing makes sense.
Stars seem red behind laughing clouds of green;
as healthy germs are placed in quarantine.
Now nothing happens in the present tense.

When you’re not around everything seems weird:
The trees have witchy fingers spooky shapes
(deep-rooted in a dried-up lunarscape)
while every leaf and flower snigger-sneers.

But when you grace my presence with your poise
the jigsaw pieces crumple into place.
Dead suns will blare their light in hyperspace —
cacophony becomes a joyful noise.

Am I a foolish man (undignified)
to want you here forever by my side?

© 2011, Alan Morrison

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s