Sonnet 41, Every Portico With Shades... Poem by Peter S. Quinn

Every portico with shades from days born
Every mood there is has a mirrored soul
Each and any thought - a magnetic pole
With you delays and makes you feel forlorn
Life is like all this of torture and scorn
Only of sufferance none to control
Or a straw among straws a wholesome whole
Which age bestows on until it's out worn
Rockies with frames ties with a fractured bound
Faraway places with a distance to see
But inward colours of the spectrum self
The ruins of the past lie hidden, not found
An internal hint of something to be
The texture of surfaces, a darkish delph.