Sonnet #349

 This is my mountaintop, where all clamber stops

And up in the wind, the beat never drops - we'll howl

like the animals at kings and cops, we'll scowl

when the wind comes strong enough to make us hop

it's cold and lonely here, where we are ever righteous

and just down the mountain, there, i see the world fantastic

all the muddling and puddling and funneling and plastic

and it's climbing up, just throw things in the crevice

let them blow until the clutter sputters where boots scoot

the bits around, I'm shouting down and down, but wind

will never let me go, and everything blows, shoots

in the gusts into corners and crushed rocks and sins

are coming up, litter and dropped dogshit bags scoot, 

Soda bottles, water bottles, my screaming does nothing