Sonnets

I created a triptych of sonnets for my Poetry class, all tied by love but with a much darker theme. The focus of them is to present the melancholic, frustrating and often world weary side instead of comparing people to plants and flowers. I think experimenting with theme is interesting, especially with the sonnet that has become synonymous with a fixed person as a subject and instead playing around with them first.

Maybe eventually I'll write a happy sonnet?


I) I Cannot Sleep (I Will Not Dream For Me)

I cannot sleep, I will not dream for me
Nightmares come and go; existence dithers
betwixt the chaos lurking in my dreams,
Our bed is ice; I’m the one who shivers.

The covers cold as if a winter’s night,
as if by spellwork knifed me of my love,
bereft of you, till scattered morning light
has fractured you and I to push and shove.

the empty days are sodden and betrayed
by you, by I, by silent moans of him
but night will come as soon as dawn will fade
the mo(u/rn)ing comes, I’m frac t u red from with(in).

I cannot sleep, I will not dream for you,
the only rest, I seek in catacombs.

II) Supernova

I love to love but fall upon my face,
A thing with lips, a thing they dread to kiss.
I smile right back, the wrong one sits in space
With me; I’d rather be a star and miss
The breach; to burn up in to nothingness.

Its pretty though; that from so far away
The beauty of its death becomes addressed,
From me, not him, it’s not what he foresees:
A night of passion to an awkward morn,
A smoke to laugh at opportunists fall,
His once full eyes are ash and laced with scorn,
My mind is dead; I’m gazing at the walls.

The bed,
the door,
the walk, 
the shame, 
the cry,
I’d rather walk away, I’d rather die.

III) ~A Moth To His Flame~

A heart that beats and thumps slowly; enthralled
by moths with wings of dark eyes to depress,
and surely with a torch he will debauch
and steal a monsters grin so he’ll impress.

the flames and smoke that lick his face surround
the moth on both sides so it cannot fly,
and when its burned to cinders he will frown
a nihilistic glare to scorch the sky.

He brings himself outside to breathe the air,
he coughs for its impurities are all.
But with his heart shaped glasses he’ll prepare
a portrait of damnation they’ll adore.

And when they’re tired and fed up with his smile
they’ll sink away in shadows from the child.