Stupid of me to think I have agency
when I open my mouth
seeing as my tongue is always
otherwise instructed.
A sonnet of ****** passion
or a sestina of natural splendor
would really aid me most,
but the obnoxious curtness and terror
of our true vision is all my tongue
will abide. I sing, briefly,
about death and love,
because love is here,
and death is coming.