Internal Landscapes II (Spenserian Sonnet)
Derailed, unhinged, the secrets in his mind;
The boy he don’t know anyone to show.
Irrational unsettling design,
Can’t tell the difference between friend or foe.
In storm ablaze, a beacon out does go
To pierce the veil of darkened solitude,
Though help, from where, cannot be seen or known.
No eye has turned to hear his lonely mood,
So, too, the thought that breaks and does exude
A paralyzing shot to take his life:
Not physical, of soul, makes him conclude,
There’s nevermore, or anything, but, strife.
Why put a buried treasure in a dome,
Where mortal men can never extract home?