Day 83.

So Cappelli gave us the quote at the top of my last post and told us to write a sonnet based on it.
I don't know how I feel about this one.

The lights are always on near where you live.
In your yellow windows lightning pauses,
and soon that illumination will give
way to thunder. I don't know what causes
the delay that lets me measure in time
our distance, whisper the seconds in some
improbably dark corner, where sublime
fists start fights; where compelling wrecks become
legend or tragedy, or both. Because
your blackened eye like a ripe plum will swell
and you will tell me that maybe there was
sort-of beauty in how these pieces fell.
Broken things have stories, so we listen.
We mark them ours to watch the shards glisten.