Sonnet

Standard

Association is the key.
My knees are locked in pace.
No more pacing around
the corridor, no conjectures

left to settle. The humidity
strikes like nettles on my neck.
With only this one speck
of nourishment, I can flourish

in the finest fashion
with passion as my guide.
The tide is shifting.

The curtain, lifting. And sifting
through the soil, I’ll find
meaning in my spoiled roots.

-r. miller

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