Sonnet 2: The Revenge
I do not know a verse to calm my blood
so I must bleed my own, until it's full
of ghosts and flowers, woven hands and mud
the black and red mud of my bitter soul
And through our hands what fearful visions roll!
The death of ancient towers, and the din
of broken fathers, weeping to the shore
and gleaming forests, pounding on the door
The fortresses of thought, diseased and wise
that burst to let the shade of madness in
Old rotted spirits clamoring to rise-
And all are dreams are laced with tearful sighs...
And all the forceful palaces must fall...
To hold your moonlit hand, I'd give it all