My eyes express the color of water,
Borrowed from sky and surface light, masking
What is simple and set to a shifting
Dance of shade, nothing fixed, but much broader
Than any definition that’s offered.
Truth changes, though I won’t call it lying,
Just a change of key, tuned to who’s asking;
I am mutable, but no imposter.
I am mercurial, my substance one
Driving hatters mad, messenger of gods,
A trail burned and arced just past vision
Sparks my words’ winged, feathered flight to the sun
In migration, one thousand pleated swans
Flying color, less shade and more motion.
A Miltonian sonnet, rough as hell and full of slant rhymes, but I do believe I have the scheme down, if nothing else.