Sonnet CXVI

I need no titles on my poetry.
They’re pointless, hindering my true intent.
Each word is laden with my watchful eye,
by readers passed and warmly, gladly sent.
When titles coldly summarize, they lie.
The depth and meaning of my words can bend
to your interpretation. Titles try.
But rigidly, they sell my thoughts for rent.

If anytime I wanted you to know
what I was saying, then I would have said.
But when? For meanings change as day turns night,
as sunsets change their glowing pinks to brown.
As flowers fall and turn to feed the dead,
as shifting shadows stop to tell their plight.