Tamara Puskarevic // A SONNET TO BE SUNG

I sing to myself,

Tapping out the beats,

My books on the shelf,

Filled with music sheets.

 

I strum a rubber band,

Humming to a track,

I thrum with my hand,

Reciting notes so black.

 

Like a waterfall,

I let the words fall out,

Almost like a squall,

‘Til they dry up in a drought,

 

The words sail forth, like an armada,

As I end my words with a final estocada.

 

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