Crisis

Crisis

I lift the cup and sip my tea and weigh

The words that forming are into my mind,

Across my thoughts they scattered are, like hay,

And I the right one, simply, can’t locate.

Discomfort enter; exit Concentration.

Then the sonnet I began to write

Sprawls out of its boundaries, worsens, falls apart.

The rhyme has vanished, the neatness tarnished;

The meter is also lost, ever-changing;

The syllables that form a line are way too many

Or way too few.

So I just end this sonnet in great haste

And never look back at it, thus defaced.