SONNET
by Helen Dawson
How nice to sit
here not thinking of you,
Not giving you word's immortality,
Silently watching you drift out of view,
It's all such a tragic hilarity.
Each sentence, each letter worth so much more,
I've given you too many already,
My indulgent pen, my weapon of war?
Would that make me incredibly petty?
But I love the drama of all these words,
That we've been living behind for so long,
Our hollow fantasy no longer hurts,
Thought it was real, I guess I was wrong.
Companioned loneliness all it could be,
Now catharsis, that word that makes me free.