Inner Noise Sonnet

Hush the storm of thoughts, pavilion of women
beneath my scalp and feel for orchids there  
or songs of August suns that sink in lemons,  
the wispy hint of tamaracks, fresh air.  
Still the flying serifs armed with swords  
and every font with flatulence or dagger;  
cacophonies of formulated words  
with pointed scripts drawn quickly from their scabbards
A memory can be a lethal thing  
wrung from rags in silent flickered film,  
their conversations clipped there as a wing,
distorted in their isolated realm.  
Now quieter, I think I hear the sparrow  
gathering the dawn up from its sorrow.