Jangle Corona

Technically this is a corona of sonnets. Two is the absolute minimum number for a corona, I guess.

Lord knows, sometimes I tire of this jangle
the echoes of my thoughts inside my head,
associations, knots I can’t untangle,
ideas fermenting like yeast in bread—
a thousand words I wish could be unsaid.
I dream in rhyme, and wake up heavy-eyed
from undercover struggles in my bed,
poetic needs that couldn’t be denied
like words that wouldn’t fit, but must be tried
against the ruthless meter of salvation.
The truth is perfect; I must not elide
a single syllable of incantation
from echoes from the wellspring of my soul
from poems meant to stand complete and whole.

From poems meant to stand complete and whole,
parading past me, in the realms of sleep
I tear away as much as I can hold
mere fragments these, the best that I could keep.
For though the well is limitless and deep
my bucket’s a mere cup, a tiny thing
to draw up water. Oh, if I could leap
instead of crawl! The songs that I would sing,
the memories of dreaming lands, I’d bring
and spread before you on this paper table.
It’s all that I can do, remembering
my dreams, and writing out the best I’m able
like nightingales who sing although half-strangled.
Lord knows, sometimes I tire of this jangle.