sonnet two hundred eighteen

i sing to the glazed, red
hues of the clouds soaked
by the sun, and see
the impatient wind

hum and hover above
the truest of truths -
daunted by the alpha
aspiring punctuations

married to the epic
that is our onset
and our end -

and the ceaseless
understanding and
fear that lies in between.

sonnet two hundred seventeen

the savage landscapes
mourning the hours we
stay awake, the moments we
spend apart, clinging

to perpetual resonances
- of names hailed and
spoken in the dark, of
the blackness drowning

the still, impenetrable us,
we arch our embrace so
it may take the shape

of who we dream of
becoming, so it may take
the form of light.

sonnet two hundred sixteen

as the dust collected on
blistered shadows and angled
dreams, the dimensions
shifted to suddenly simply

telling this story of you
and me on a road that
fumbles and twists with
each day we forego the

pain and forgive the
inconsistencies, with each
moment we gauge

the silence of hunted
smiles and of unending
poems and desires.

sonnet two hundred fifteen

with bated breath we
confine ourselves in
circles of the fiercest
need we both have

ever felt, we both
have ever known, without
the necessity to measure
misery or distance,

without the nagging
red stranger that is
loneliness, without any

other thought but
our reality, this, us, now,
and the next vacant hours.

sonnet two hundred fourteen

tiptoeing around the noon
of your sleep, or the naked,
yawning dawn that carried
the divine shadow of your

body in languor, time
in a day marked by the
painful hours apart, alone
i would imagine the phases

your breathing instill
upon walls and ceilings
of a heaving, perpetual

need, to discern your
thoughts, bubbles within
your mind as you lay.

sonnet two hundred thirteen

we hide our unguarded
desires under a coal mine,
just like an amaranth,
all a dream until it

aches and blisters and
could no longer stop itself
from manifesting, like
heedless blossoms staring

skyward, tracing the steps
until it touches the
vague blue clouds,

until all it knows is that
it must follow - the sound,
the sight, the feel of your voice.

sonnet two hundred twelve

haunted by the scent of ash,
we have been standing in
the middle of a fire,
ever so consumed by this

desire, where, even in the
gorge of our souls are elevated
by the ceaseless red and
orange flames, running

towards the creation
of random clouds of
thoughts that bear only

what we long have held
for one another, what
we make of who we are.