Wrestling with Opposites

Apparently a sonnet of some sort.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Against evening’s advent, and taunting tests,
Usurping her kingdom, works and rests,
Burning with passive intent her toast,
Drinking to gone times of a good far friend,
Turning to greet her need and nightly boast.
Amid dour thunder’s hymn at April’s end,
I pluck from dark and fear and fight a thought:
I’ll stamp and stone; I child, beguiled and bought.

Self entraps: seed should burst to stars from pod.
Psyche untamed and vain is choking vine.
This soul is mirthful, old, flailed and fine,
Grandstanding and gold as any god.
Stay, wake, brave the game with grin and grit:
Bring roses, grope growth, cry love, love it.