The stubble only stuttering across
Your (sadly) uncleft chin. The mesa of a
Mole upon your neck, the mark of a lover
Surrendered to the beast. Your eyes agloss
With eager fear, transfixed on the horizon
Still. The net upon your skin, it sears
You to the bone. Legs thrash as death comes near.
Head pressed against the alter of my thighs,
You plead for your release, gripping ankles.
A chortled frenzy rises from between
Your grinding teeth. The apex of your horror:
A groan, contortion in weird angles.
All covered in a cold and sickened sheen,
All limp, you eye the open door.
1 comment:
Andrea, I just wanted to tell you that I read this when you posted it and liked it but just forgot to comment. I really enjoy this, it has depth of meaning and elegance of wording, even if the subject is so gruesome. That, I think, is the poem's strong point: the contrast between form and content, which is made even stronger by the use of such a traditional and restrictive form of poetry.
There's lots of admiration here, I don't think I could ever write a sonnet and as usual I'm in awe before something that rhymes and scans in such an unconceited, natural manner. Well done!
Post a Comment