she.was.a.sonnet
she was a sonnet
and i it’s faithful scribe
i took her into my mind
succumbed to her gentle wordplay
gave up to her rhythmic patterns
as they played pitter patter on my broken bones
But she was not just the beautiful stanzas
she was not the deep and insightful thoughts she provoked
she was not the deadly poisonous obsession that she produced
I etched her being into myself
I bled of the ink which I gave for her life
She was a sonnet
comprised of verse
ended her poetic career in a hurst
and when my voice speaks her, it doesn’t stop the hurt
