Monday, July 9, 2012

sonnet one hundred fifty nine

we morph into blades that
run to the deep, cornerless
abyss of night, i take with
me the gentle fragrance of

my name as you would say it,
as if to make me forget
the haze and the pandemonium,
as if to make out of me

a soldier moving on to battle
armored with only the thought
of you - and i know this is

something i can do, chained
to your kiss in the mist,
in the mysteries, in the morning.

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