Sonnet for Wonder
If the world is small, how is it also
Infinite? What whirls us round, throwing me
To you, for you? Every kiss, the world forgoes
Despair and turns again. What is to be
Flawed, is also divine. Logic dictates
That we are fleeting, and yet words linger
Through ages; we touch the souls, traverse straits
Of heroes thought (at world’s end), at fingers’
Touch we fall apart. Are we the stars’ dust,
Or the dust of bygone beauty? Why fall,
If all falls from us. We darest this, for just
Knowing you is proof of little at all,
And yet all is found in your star-filled eyes,
Turning on me, reflecting star-filled skies.
Your hands could heal a thousand sad bruises,
Whispers of your gentle touch ghosts my skin,
I’m tired of running from those abuses.
They broke down walls, hurting me from within.
Could you keep the monsters at bay all night?
Tell me simple stories of your childhood.
Could you keep the monsters away till light?
Open up my eyes when dreams are no good.
The comforter and the sheets, our fortress,
Our bed, a battleground, fights in our minds.
We prepare for battle as we undress.
Hoping tonight the demons will be kind.
We have to save each other every night,
Saviors again until the morning light.
If love should ever find its way to me,
An empty, hollowed vessel it shall find,
For time brought none but pain and misery
To longing shores upon an island mind.
My written word is fraught with honest thought,
So seek the truth in ev’ry word’s display.
This heart caved long ago to simple fact
That only loneliness shall pave its way.
Today I woke and wished for none but you;
I cashed in ev’ry ounce of stowed prayer
That vagaries of old should prove out true,
Delivered with a fragrant coffee air.
Good morning, dream; if I may be so bold,
I’d love, this day, to have you and to hold.
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”—Pablo Neruda
The wicked bits of us— the warped, the wrong—
we wish to feel her break. Lord, how we long
to help her harvest all the lust she’s sown;
to crush her bird-bone frame beneath our own;
To pound her pretty pelvic bones to dust
and hear her scream hitch at each reaming thrust;
to force our straining mass deep to her core
and hear her hoarsely begging us for more.
We pity her naïveté; her lot,
so willingly cast down with us to rot,
to writhe forever, wrapped in daemon fire
for no less great an evil than desire.
Still yet, our pity wanes as she begins to weep,
For Hell hath ne’er housed such company to keep.
“Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand." ”—Sonnet 60 William Shakespeare
“I’ll write you novels,” she once said to me.
Her words grew wings that carried woes away.
“Each page will set a piece of your heart free.
A gift that time nor tears could drive astray.”
She knows that I am not the type to fight,
Accepting life as it should come to pass,
So with her ink, she offers me her light
To guide me through and ‘round each new impasse.
Although I’ve made it on my own to date,
I must admit it’s comforting to know
That should I find too much upon my plate,
I’ll have her guide to ref’rence where to go.
All men should have a title all their own;
Mine was written by the kindest hand I’ve ever known.