An Ode to Sonnets

It's about time you're fed something other than sloppily fastened paragraphs; not necessarily graceful, but at least it has structure.

                                          With crimson, with scarlets; they bleed, have bled

Strike through in beats, my hands; of an artist

A painting, my painting of words unsaid

lack breath, this masterpeice that I detest

Into abyss, I beg, let me regress

In my own dark pleasure I lay impaled

the dusk, she tempts me, too far to surpress

for at last I may sink; my ship has sailed

 In lust after sky, for my stars don’t shine

from the sun comes no warmth, what’s left to be?

set to erode, to darkness I confine

in riddance of self, in self I set free

Asked life unto grim, why we fear to die:

My tounge’s truth, yet your’s, a beautiful lie