Sonnet for Tunnel 29
Days may collect black teardrops in a can,
rendering the night to twitch, turn and crawl.
Rivulets can quell the dreams of a man,
from taking chances, to plunder his all.
I’m told streams wind themselves to a river,
that David Bowie came here to get clean.
To converge is the current of the giver,
to stagnate, the language of the mean.
‘No Mans Land’ is a field where tourists thieve.
They snap photos and buy cheap souvenirs.
They'll never know that you dug underneath,
through a stinking ditch to drown all the years.
I want to see you standing by the wall.
I won't allow memorials to fall.