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     :A cluster of Sonnets

Antimony, my delicate flower
with smoke-darkened eyes, my heart has failed
for you, never to beat for another.
Yet though my thrumming love has quailed,
each time I gaze into my goblet of wine
I see you, my cunning Egyptian goddess,
dancing to the sound of silver and lace, fine
bronze skin rippling in warm numb finesse.
And as the cool wine passes through my lips
I taste your essence, rust and salty-sweet.
Suddenly I taste the past as heaving grips
throat and belly to purge my greed, deplete
my mass and prepare me for the sorrow
still passionately furrowing my brow.

Hemlock, of you I write, of you I sing,
I watched you hide within tranquil waters
tempting wise men to heaven, they who bring
you nothing but their novel thoughts which deter
from the shut-in nothingness all minds share.
In your apathy you steel their sense in mesh
of judgments as you did mine without care.
I grasp fire sacrificing my flesh
in desperate hope you’ll bring my feeling back
and release your hold upon my limbs to
finally let me fall before your lilac
skirts and let me feel the jagged stones you
have flourished upon--while my words sharply
fade as you kneel upon my chest, mourning quietly.

Cyanide, your precious gifts of dulcet
cherries, plums, peaches and gently blushing
laurels, keep my reason your marionette.
Your eyes, rotten pits, burn in my dreaming
and sear my pupils while my conscious lies clear,
Their beauty captivating my soft frail
exhales and holding them before me, I fear
even then I’ll live savoring your taste, an assail
of bitter almonds, pungent as sulfur.
Yet the anguish of my shattered ardor
simply caresses my willingness to further
comply with your insatiable lust for
my cyan flesh gracious beneath your glass
whip. Sorry but I must politely pass.