The final crown is now complete! And the first lines of each of the sonnets numbered fifteen to twenty-eight come together to form our second sonnet wreath. This one is aptly named 'Authority'.
Power: it’s all about the clout of wealth.
I want to make your choice and I can pay
for healing all my wounds, but not myself -
forgetting what the hell I tried to say
concerning subjugation by the state,
the apparatus of coercive law.
If we were richer, we could emigrate
and listen to rare starlings on the shore -
a chattering of hubris and conceit.
Below the doleful hum of coconuts
I reassess my errors and defeats.
My poetry is clearly going nuts!
What is a metre? Whereof do we speak?
Like mice on picket lines, I have a squeak.