Personal Dickinson

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2010/04/19

The outcome one expects one would — predict 
the Hope that hides — one makes up at her door 
all skewed, intent on morbid dreads.  Before
they made her words exact, her Fancy tricked

out sounds — not aimed to discharge nor convict,
beyond the Self's demands.  The words she wore
wore thin and frail, left hidden in her drawer — 
when she's gone off we'll have them all, unpicked

by Pleasure's cure.  So Death becomes no sport
nor jest — nor was our Love the same.  We grudge
the privacies most missed, then read and judge
and damn.  So she'll have been my last resort.

I'm neither yours nor hers.  I trace her scars
to find her Heart — rewritten in your stars.


sonnet 4 in a prompted cycle of sonnets

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