May 2015
Dusk.* I won't paint you another sunset,
another beautiful striped sea; no, not today.
Picture instead a smooth discolored surface
on which a firmly gripped stone was roughly
ground, causing a painful chalky screech; the
misemployed rock left vague yellow scars and
lavender bruises on the horizon; the sun cowers
behind them fearfully, distraught by the undue
violence; this is the sunset I experienced at
your fragrant side, and wondered - not unlike
that astre - what could possibly justify the
yellow, spectral scars in my heart, the bright,
undue violence brought upon my pride, and
the slighted sunset in my soul. This is *Dusk.
another beautiful striped sea; no, not today.
Picture instead a smooth discolored surface
on which a firmly gripped stone was roughly
ground, causing a painful chalky screech; the
misemployed rock left vague yellow scars and
lavender bruises on the horizon; the sun cowers
behind them fearfully, distraught by the undue
violence; this is the sunset I experienced at
your fragrant side, and wondered - not unlike
that astre - what could possibly justify the
yellow, spectral scars in my heart, the bright,
undue violence brought upon my pride, and
the slighted sunset in my soul. This is *Dusk.
This is Dusk, the third of a series of four Sonnets. So far I have Dawn, Noon and Dusk, and I'll bet you know who's next...
I think this set of Sonnets is starting to take the shape of wounded love letters to a close friend of mine. I stress the term "friend" with something like hurt anger. I hope it can be heard through my verse.
I think this set of Sonnets is starting to take the shape of wounded love letters to a close friend of mine. I stress the term "friend" with something like hurt anger. I hope it can be heard through my verse.
