Sonnet 36

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2007/02/28

The heart of us that never will be dead
has splintered into shards that can't be fixed,
and through the rumpled bedsheets where it bled
our futile prayers to love soak intermixed.

No passion interrupts the flow of sins
from simple choices through their complex turns,
returning home where every sin begins.
The poet in each lover never learns.

The camera used to snap these shots is old,
so only photographs what's meant to be.
Some new ones should be published soon, I'm told,

which also would appreciate your touch
of hunger dipped in brutal sympathy
for what it's worth. I should deserve so much.

Tagged with: ,

Sincere comment by readers who accept responsibility for their words will earn my appreciation and response.

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: