Scraps

I never liked reading sonnets.  They just didn't feel good.  It was like watching a cheese grater do math.  This was an attempt to make one fun and I think it turned out that it's less cheese greater and more seaweed doing the math this time.  I'd forgotten I'd named it scraps.  Not sure it fits but what else should I call something like this?

Scraps

When battles crack, I halt to watch dreams pass

From incomplete to ideals worth my heart.

The stained cacophonies of shattered glass

That catch the screaming light and bar the dark;

The days that dance with hopes that live beyond

The ardent choreography of time;  

What balls of black loom dark in front of dawn’s 

Next coming day?  These battles are not mine,

But they are left to climb my yesterdays. 

What could be sent to wipe away the dark--

Step up, step round and ring a sound that stays

To undo what has split the dawns apart?

     I’ll scream out loud when I am called to be

     The one they send to break the iron sea.