Sonnet XII: The Clock Still Chimes (A blank verse sonnet)
©2017, Olan L. Smith
A domicile; alone and dank abode
Along streets of oak and elm where rotted,
Deboned, uneaten flesh still hangs from trees
And Nana's kisses takes the meat off bones.
Bedeviled willing martyrs hence are stitched
To times' unending din, cacophonies,
Discordant tics and tocks are thus compiled,
Old houses lay in ruin no evidence of life,
Where names of street will change, where houses crash;
Where crypts do propagate like playing broods;
And yet, one thing remains the same above,
The towering clock still chimes to call us home.
It stirs a fluttered heart to beat and say,
"My bones will bring a fire upon the dawn."