Sonnet CCCXXI

The ketchup on these plates I wash is dry,
a spray of crimson spared from Monday’s fries.
I recognize those peanut butter marks
that decorate our cups with muddy tracks.

These fossils of the meals we once have shared
are found upon this dirty tableware,
but such remains will soon be washed away
and are replaced with newer, fresher stains.

We’ve shared so many meals upon these plates;
we shared so many secrets as we ate!
I grew from youth as cracks grew from their sides –
what memories these little bruises hide!

It’s sad to think I’ll one day leave these bowls,
to buy new sets to fill a newer home.

Sonnet CCCXX

Upon a glassy sea of sapphire,
two equal winds suspend our men.
What good is mutinous desire
when forces such as these attend?

The southern wind propels us northward;
the northern wind impels us southward.
Their equal strengths thus cancel out,
and hence we move not north nor south.

Our hopeless map is weak and futile –
our whims are simply whims, at most.
We have no say in where we go –
we’re at the mercy of such reptiles.

How cruelly vacant Titans play,
whose empty sighs control our fates!

Sonnet CCCXIX

A day begins anew as dawn arrives –
the Sun’s in love with all the Earth!
The bees are giggling in their beehives;
the gossip tickles all the birds.

You see that cautious glance, so distant?
He keeps afar, lest fiery passion
ignite his dearest, earthly love.
Devotion! Tender as a dove.

He warms her world and keeps it living
and return, she’s cruel and blind,
exalting in her selfish mind,
oblivious as planets can be.

If lovers loved like timid stars,
then love is pain and life is hard!

Sonnet CCCXVIII

You’re quaking privately like aspen,
your wings aquiver from the chill.
The concrete, grey and bleak, is barren,
the air above you, dead and thin.

Your limbs, like those of trees, are trembling,
as if igniting airy kindling.
Your body’s twisting to and fro,
as if escaping from the cold.

There isn’t joy, but bitter coldness;
there is no pity from the breeze -
there’s only its brutality –

And yet there’s my benevolence:
I see you scrambling down the wall;
I place you in the corner’s thrall.

Sonnet CCCXVII

By day, by night, she is a mother,
regardless of her viciousness.
At times, by day she’s also…vampire…
as wicked as a mini-witch.

Her wings are silver as a spirit,
her eyes, vermillion as carrot.
Her stealth is ninja-like – beware! –
her flight is silent through the air.

The prick she takes is practised, wary,
unfelt and quick, as if a word.
Oh villain, stealing precious blood!
Upon your vicious crime I’ll tarry:

you feed your monstrous little babes
at my expense! You’ll pay someday!

Sonnet CCCXVI

The wind is sure of where he’ll voyage –
although he has not hue nor form –
he journeys with majestic carriage,
with surety of aim and course.

The sun is sure of where he travels –
his path as clear as how he dazzles –
he moves upon his bluish way,
and knows his end each finished day.

The rain is sure of where he courses –
his way is down, his path is straight –
he measures out his tapping gait,
and never varies from that rhythm.

And I – am sure of nullity;
dependent on a guiding breeze.

Sonnet CCCXV

She plucks the ground with claws of ochre,
and pecks it – daintily – for worms.
She thus maintains her girlish figure,
so careful how she keeps her form.

She’s watchful of her patch of sidewalk,
the passing shoes exalt her peril.
She flutters, only to return,
her brief escape so quickly spurned.

She hops right into golden sunshine,
her feathers cast in different light.
Her task continues, to the right,
resolve unshaken, almost feline.

She looks around – so watchfully! –
while shining with an umber sheen.

Sonnet CCCXIV

The trees, encased in pallid ices,
are groping at me dolefully.
I touch their limpid, frozen branches –
although my heart, as well, is bleak.

The snow has little hope for better,
and lights upon me, cold and tattered.
I melt each ashen, snowflake face,
and wish, at least, I had their grace.

But spring will come, I tell the frozen,
and thusly thinking, search for hope.
The rain will soon replace the snow;
returning warmth will soon embolden -

And cold despair shall dissipate,
as joy and bliss rejuvenate.

Sonnet CCCXIII

To Robin,
             lying on the asphalt.
Another time would find us – live –
upon a grassy hill of beryl,
conversing as the time flies by.

We’d daily meet beyond the meadow,
a pair concealed beneath a willow,
the shadows overhearing us –
our gossip of the latest fuss.

But who has time these days to chatter?
My strict routines keep feet a-patter;
and you’re just trying to survive,
amidst my world – besides -

You’re roadkill, dead upon the road,
your breast a purest ruby-gold.

Sonnet CCCXII

The pinkish, french-fry earthworms wiggle,
their gossamer a sheerest shine.
I carefully avoid their squiggles
and quickly leap minutely by.
The ravens perch like jet-black devils,
their eyes like opal, heads all level.
From trees above, they wait with glee,
their stomachs churning, fed with greed.
The rain is sloshing by my shoulders
and all about my feet as well.
Do I tread worms? I cannot tell!
Alas, I look beyond my sneakers -
I’ve helped a bird digest his meal–
at the expense of worms at heel!

Sonnet CCCXI

The frozen earth is creaking slightly
as cautious footsteps tread its face.
My eyes, like guarded shells of brandy,
are scanning quickly ‘round the place.
I’m searching for the Dog I’m scared of.
He’s nowhere to be seen – but careful!
As walking past his home, he barks –
I see his muzzle, then his snarl.
But then I’m past and he is chained there,
and is he – puzzled? Curious?
We glance covertly, silent, lest
the other think the other weaker.
He barks, I bow; he stalks away –
but maybe we shall meet another day.

Sonnet CCCX

Equations always bother me: they’re hard and difficult.
And yet, just practise, learn, and understand the art of math
and suddenly, they seem as simple as a homespun path.

My algebra is long, complex, annoying, odd, and dull.
And yet, with patience, perseverance, and a clearer plan,
it’s solved as one would solve a jigsaw puzzle – just like that.

As hard as math may be at times, it’s always solvable.

The art of human interaction’s not as black-and-white.
The human nature’s fickle; answers aren’t so clear to me –
and unlike math, the question’s not laid out for one to see.

You think your good relationship shall last a life – or more,
and then it crumbles, reasons unbeknownst. And enemies
perhaps - are not as menacing and evil as they seem.

Sonnet CCCIX

The hand that lives upon my left is virtuously good,
an advocate of chastity and humble purity.
My right hand dwells in boastful hubris – symbol of his greed!
My left hand sheds humility, of which my right hand should.

A pearl’s obtuse ambition stems from beauty in his plum.
Imaginings of greatness cloud his sphere – and like the sea,
ambition turns to laziness, and then to servantry –
accentuating other beauties, complimenting them.

The right hand wishes excellence; his talents justify.
In awe, we read his sentences, all crafted by his pen;
we hear his soaring melodies, and wear the clothes he mends –
And yet, his over-zealous flair is nothing but a joke.
In truth the virtue of the left is heightened by his friend –
the right’s distraught flamboyance causes need for humbleness.

Sonnet CCCVIII

The human race is ugliest of all and strange and odd:
our skins are limited to solid hues of neutral tones,
the shades of dark or light. Our ugly features cause us woe –
those eyes as small as sand, enlarged by crude mascara rods.

Oh look upon the birds with splendid wings, who fly to see their God –
how multicoloured are their feathers – gold and red as loam,
ignited by the sun. Oh look upon the fish below,
with scales of iridescent green and blue on every cod -

We long for spotted fur and shiny skin and lovely tails,
and everyday we looks at mirrors – not with vanity –
but with desire, wanting more than looking plain and ugly.

And yet we stare at magazines as if we’re something else –
but glossy pages can’t conceal – they only show our folly.
What good does fashion do but captivate our stupid need?

Sonnet CCCVII

The great economy of Spring is paralleled by none:
she’ll lease a birdsong lest we’re bored – but only to the trees;
she’s miserly with sunny warmth and sheds it grudgingly;
she only spares a tiny slip of ordinary sun.

Each gesture’s full of luxury, but counted in her sum,
and in the end we’re left with scraps, all small and crude and cheap:
a sliver of a heated ray, a menacing zephyr –
and even time is spent with care; it slowly sticks as gum.

It’s not until a month or two she spends some more and more;
her time is thrown away – like that! – and soon she starts to give –
her gold, the sun; the grass, an emerald – now shared as gifts.

As if she’s realized she’ll die; decides to spend it all –
and yet we know that’s not the case, in fact, the opposite –
that Spring – warmed by a guilty coal – has just begun to live.

Sonnet CCCVI

A shadow’s awfully useless – doesn’t do much else than wait.
Of course it’s nice to have a patient friend – but not some stain
that doesn’t help at all. I need a friend that has a brain –
that moves at least – decisively, not copying my fate.

Because my shadow tags along all day, he proves to be a pain.
If he were helpful, life would be much easier – and great!
He’d follow me attentively, ensuring I’m not late –
and never would his disposition be of cruel disdain.

But shadows are too careful, treading much too cautiously.
They only move when I do – making sure it’s safe –
and even clouds seem deadly, driving them to hide away.

Oh, even in the natural world there’s infidelity.
You don’t get service if you never tip the servitor –
it’s sad how life is made by money – never made by more!

Sonnet CCCV

I tumbled in a world of poetry, unknowing then
it planted many unborn seeds within my growing head.
When life became more cruel and difficult and more bereft,
I wrote. Those early seeds exploded, eating up the sad.
It turned to times I lost what little that I used to have –
and namely things like dignity and peace and happiness.
and even cherished poetry was causing buoyant debt;
the rhymes turned darker, weaker, pushing me toward the mad.

And how has poetry transfigured me? I’ve learnt to live,
and to express, of course. I steal the world a second time
to take in all its details differently and make them mine.

Now everything’s a poem and everything has sharpened since.
I can’t say phrases properly – they always tend to rhyme!
How much my life has changed – now poetry’s my way of life!

Sonnet CCCIV

There’s something I forgot – I dropped it on the way to school.
It’s lost now, covered by the snow, and never to be found.
The very thing I lost is buried in these whitish mounds
and stubbornly stays buried in its snowy tomb.

I look up at the blazing sky and feel like quite the fool.
I’ve known this thing before perhaps – perhaps it’s still around,
or left back at the house – perhaps it’s lost back at the town?
The thing confounds me with its game. Its riddle’s strange and cruel.

Perhaps you’ve lost a twin to mine – a spool of thought escaping.
When reckless, threads pop through your head and drift off to the snow.
And though you search and search, it’s somewhere else– that much you know.

But where, exactly? Was it critical, this thing?
Or something trivial? I walk away and hope my brain’s
intact, or other things will spill and make me more inane.

Sonnet CCCIII

Two singers – sisters maybe – frozen on a tapestry –
gaze back at me, emotions still unchanged, though years have flown.
Who knows how long ago their faces first were stitched and sewn –
my guess the Renaissance – their clothes exude its majesty.

One gown is crimson-red; her sister’s, blue-green like the sea.
Who knows who was the prettier – they looks as twins – or foes.
Or maybe neither lived – they’re dreams that no one living knows -
but either way, they’re shrouded in their girlish mystery.

Eternalized forever, in this lovely piece of art,
they set us pondering, with wooden instruments in hand;
their mouths sing unheard notes, which twist their graceful dance.

Dismembering from their tongues, complex harmonies depart,
unravelling in our minds, and waking creativity.
Their voices die, yet live again with grand imagining.

Sonnet CCCII

I gaze upon my precious fingertips as if they’re gold.
You’ve never looked upon your own? They swirl and dance like birds,
their curlicues like hieroglyphs – some foreign future’s words?
I marvel at their shapely curves, a wonder to behold.

Each cell was crafted wonderfully – each doing as it’s told.
I gasp when moving all of them – cohesively – they work,
all lumped together on my thumb, the link up like a herd,
reacting similarly, swift. What suppleness unfolds!

I’m never bored on looking at our digits’ old refrain.
The handiwork is more than fine – it’s masterful and grand.
The shape is pleasing – so’s the grain! A finger’s never bland.

I marvel at our wondrous hands, and digits on their plane,
supreme in craftsmanship and form, unmatched in eminence –
our bodies still defy the change of tastes with excellence!

Sonnet CCCI

I think – at times – I cannot live without my poetry.
I’d die without a haunting verse - some mirror of the world;
some puzzle clarifying life where other methods err –
and yet, I’ve lived a week with naught a poem by my seat.

But have lived? And have I truly breathed? And have I seen?
There’s never breath without a poem’s chilling murmur under,
and never sight without a poem’s complex face to ponder.
Is life a life without my strange, beloved poetry?

It’s better never understanding odd, poetic hints;
to never know a poem’s cunning power more than ink;
to never read a line until the mind begins to shrink –

than knowing how elliptical it is, and radiant:
how scarce and well-placed crystals shear the heart like swords of steel,
disrupting dull routine with contemplation’s seal.

Sonnet CCC

She wrapped her woollen shawl against her tender bones,
as frail and white as freshly fallen snow outside.
The snowflakes mutely sprinkled gingerly like rice,
then melted, leaving tarnished grasses to the cold.
She mutely waited by her simple, ashen phone
and thought of all her children’s bulging, frog-like eyes,
with wonder, watching early snows and all the ice -
but that was long ago, and thoughts like that are old.

She missed her role as mother, though. The time seemed brief,
yet full, like festive winters passing on the breeze.

She waited for her older husband’s waking words
and wondered at the emptiness within. She saw
as sparrows took to morning flight while mother birds
would wait with worry, loneliness beginning, raw.

Sonnet CCXCIX

Her crimson nails were blazing on the windowpane,
competing with the burning bushes down below.
The autumn wind was blowing children to their homes,
the afternoon already finished up again.
She put her duster down and watched them pass and play,
like dandelion puffs now drifting past her toes.
Their hair was jet against their shirts like granite crows,
their shirts now wrinkled like the leaves – some mother’s pain.

A horrid wistfulness welled up inside of her
as laughs rang through the window’s crack to pester her.

She closed the window, shutting out the bitter chill.
She has her money, home, a husband – all so nice –
but not a boy or girl. And then, before her eyes,
the school-kids passed beyond her placid windowsill.

Sonnet CCXCVIII

The humid summer pressed against her torpid brow
and painted perspiration on its surface there.
A drop plopped on her pale-white rose and cooled its face,
then holding it, she saw it darken like a frown.
The day crept by, morose and full of lazy sounds
and as she waited, felt the warm zephyr of air.
She didn’t think her birthday was a boring day,
but cherished solitude like nature’s precious crown.

Her mom was sweet and gave the lovely rose to her
before she quickly left with Dad to go to work.

And though they’d all go celebrate the day at night,
the rose was special, almost like a quiet thought
that wished to make itself more known and seen, so wrought
its loving self within the loveliest of sights.

Sonnet CCXCVII

Outside, the cherry blossoms litter grass with pink
like joy, now visible. Contentment fills her heart
and pruning pretty plants, she starts toward her art.
Beside, her baby’s sleeping, gurgling like a sink,
her stomach undulating like the rosy spring.
The dried-up leaves upon her plant she stores apart
each time she snips their crumbling softness, crushed to stars.
The task completed now, she sketches, casually.

Her pencil’s rapid scratches send her wondering:
to children, actions should be done more carefully.

She cannot snip her careless faults like dying leaves,
and rash mistakes could never be erased or fixed.
Unlike a sketch, unlike a leaf, her deeds transfix,
like spring’s unfolding captivates the mind’s reprieve.

Sonnet CCXCVI

There’s daily proof the sun adores the glowing moon:
he clears the stars come morning, spreading out his arms,
and dusts the sky until he sweeps away the dark.
What sweet devotion, lasting past the heated noon!

But like a housewife, cooking, setting out the spoons –
his work’s in vain, and ruined by a single star.
Her children ruin beds, then tear the house apart;
his lover smears the spotless sky with starry shoes.

And yet, it’s loving effort keeping “house at hame”,
and sheer compassion keeping wicked anger tame.

So, still he waits, his ardour flaming like his light.
He waits eternally until the ceiling cools;
his hot anticipation’s mighty as a fool’s –
and steadily he loves, that husband of the night!

Sonnet CCXCV

No King deserves such precious gems of finest quartz!
Look how they shine – like diamonds on the frozen earth,
so crafted carefully in perfect, rounded pearls,
a lacework crystal painted on our earthly floor.

No Queen deserves these diadems, just past my door!
Observe these clear tiaras, lacing trees in mirth,
their arborescent vanity a tool of hurt,
disdaining icy sceptres, shining from the porch.

No royal house can purchase such bijouterie,
which serves to decorate that Mother Nature’s greed.

Her winter vesture’s free for us to violate:
her gown of finest snow is dotted with our prints;
her polished nails upon the windows, ruined by our heated fist;
her valuables, with hungry eyes, we steal and desecrate.

Sonnet CCXCIV

I sit here, thinking now, of love and life – and you.
I think that love must be a boat of gentle size,
with us its former passengers. Within we’d daily ride,
contained within our pair, unseeing of the blue.
If overturned, we’d find ourselves in seas anew,
like those still plashing in experience’s tide.
We sailed each day to find where satisfaction lies,
but never reached it still intact – we’ve split in two.

I swear there’s always fish within that sea,
and one will be the one for me – or close. We’ll see.

But our first maritime adventure into love
shall be remembered – or at least by sea bound me.

I think I see you now – you’re drifting calm and free
- away – unto the brighter sky, as if a dove -

Sonnet CCXCIII

It stood there mutely, acting like some hellish hound.
The breeze bashed both of us, and crackled in between,
electric, cackling like a hag; as crudely mean.
Its eyes ablaze, they flamed like fire with no sound,
as hiding mine, I searched the barren ground.
I flinched – he snapped – uprooting like canine fiend.
But hindered by his metal chain, he couldn’t reach me,
as carefully, I crossed the road, with fearful leaps and bounds.

He barked and snarled, and looked quite helpless as it seemed,
and in my glad escape, I raced away and beamed.

When morning came again, I set about my trek,
prepared to face its flaring muzzle if it neared.
Around the bend, I cautious walked – now more prepared –
but saw no dog. I almost missed his flaming breath.

Sonnet CCXCII

I closed the door, then opened it for just a peek.
The light invaded, charging from the corridor.
I gasped, and gladly shut the ashen door once more.
And heading to my silent bed, I feel antique,
my limbs as wooden as a dresser, calmly meek.
The night is welcome, taking me toward its core,
as lying down, I close my eyes and hope to snore,
so weary of the world and all the things I seek.

How easily we fly into that final sleep,
at last prepared for nightly graveyard where we’ll keep.

The weary day, come dusk, succumbs to restful night
and yet, there shall be times the night proves permanent.
Although it’s hard to die unto our cerement,
into that final sleep – how easily we fly!

Sonnet CCXCI

We go to death as easy as a sum to solve,
but struggle through our lives, obsessing over much.
We struggle, even growing close to death and push
to keep ourselves the younger selves we’ve come to love.
Old age and death – these things we fight until they come.
An yet – we go to them quite easily and hush
as quickly as a baby to his nap. We gush –
we gush like mad to stop it – yet it comes, quite dull,
at last; we wish it wasn’t easy leaving happy life –
the treasure cherished heavily and loved like strife,
and yet we struggle through, at last to end the trip,
but still regretful. Coming swift and suddenly,
there’s little hesitation. Meet death like a dream –
and blindly grope the livelong way until you see.

Sonnet CCXC

A worthy novel grips me for a week or two.
Upon its end I find myself dissatisfied.
The themes are dull, the scenes are plain, the prose is dry.
Sparse millions of phrases drift unto the new.

A poem’s brief. Just forty words suffice for you.
And yet, those cautious forty words stick more in mind
than fifty thousand, spread within a novel’s bind.
Poetic words are crafted so they make us brood -
until – they’re solved – those riddles needing different keys,
depending on the eye unlocking what they keep.

Unlike a novel – poems stay with us, for life.
No tree nor sky nor robin looks the same again.
We wonder how our poets craft such skilful rhymes
that so succinctly captive the lives we tend.

Sonnet CCLXXXIX

Do you remember me? I’m droplets in the rain
now perching on your eaves. I’m dreams you never cry
and tiny snowflakes, mingling in the azure skies.
I’m every happiness, each beaming face, each step to pain.
I’m jealousy, and worry; anger and disdain.
I’m carried in the breeze – at least my thoughts would fly –
I’m burning in the crimson leaves, and cooled by ice,
which drips so dangerous, above your window pane.

And though you’ve faded well, I still remember you –
some memory of fall now buried in the new!

No sun shall be a greater happiness – no moon
a sadder memory of lengthy hours since;
No snow a colder wickedness – no bitter wind
a frigid, madder leap toward the passing noon.

Sonnet CLXXXVIII

L’amour fleurit comme tout les noires et sombres nuits:
une fleur si belle et si mystérieuse comme toi.
Mais tout les temps tu fuis le jour et moi,
tes émotions, ombreuses; ses mots, le cœur de bruit.
Tu sais la joie? Je pense que non. La crise te suit;
les grandes tristesses sont tous tes grands nuages, si froid.
Mais toutes tes gouttes de pluie sont des larmes de moi –
et tu est insouciante et comme la lune, conduis.

Tu es la chose le jour fait comme un mal mémoire,
qui reste, puis, quitte ciel chaque souvenir de moi.

Mais maintenant, j’habite après la nuit de moi.
Le jour m’embrase, et chaque étreinte me donne la perte,
la perte de la mémoire, la perte de perte en perte –
et maintenant, j’oublie la sombre nuit, je crois.

Sonnet CLXXXVII

The sun invades me, blocked by bars the blinds devise.
Reflecting on my window’s vile betrayal Now,
the snippets of our time together Then abound.
My shock is great – these memories inflame the vice.
Remember, Window, by my side, so calm and nice,
the hours sipped like tea beneath your squarish brow,
exalting nature? Gently, patiently, I crouched
with you - companion, confidante, and chum – now snide!

Beside, and by my side, while all the time a snake,
sadistic fiend, employing me for pleasure’s sake!

Where is your loyalty? You let the daylight sear -
and look how happiness in entering in clouds!
So deafening, frenetic, strange and rude and loud -
No joy may find me here; let melancholy near.

Sonnet CLXXXVI

My life is Palette, Brush is pen, and thoughts are Paint;
my Canvas, you, unpainted by my vibrant hues.
Each strange occurrence makes a colour, if I choose,
and finds its stumbling way to tarnish your terrain.
Your whitish square’s confining, sometimes such a pain;
the guidelines of your edges trap as if a glue.
Alighting from your surface angers you -
I scrap the masterpiece and paint your mind again.

I paint again, again, although the paint is scarce,
and Palette dries my Brush’s bristly little hairs.

The hues you’ve seen before; you’ve sniffed their toxic fumes.
And yet I paint, my similes this cautious red,
my metaphors a runny green. But find the room,
and see my art, display the Paint, expose my head.

Sonnet CLXXXV

A sailor never misses land until he leaves,
the sea a barren desert stretching out to sky.
A seagull never misses sea until he flies,
the sky a cold expanse descending to the seas.

Yet on horizons, sunrise brings no joy.
Their plights become the frigid sea, the icy sky.
The only colour seen is blue, expanding deep and high
and land’s elusive; more so is the fickle sea.

We journey, soaring, happy, through our pretty lives,
though aimlessly, upon our glassy seas or sky.

The world drifts past as imperceptible as joy.
We wait for glimpse of land for crude and rare relief
or like the gull, must view our hope beyond our reach,
so mocking, playing cruel existence as its ploy.

Sonnet CLXXXIV

His fingers clammy, wet with fearful nervousness;
his crime, his art; his weapon, digits of his hand;
a criminal of highest calibre and brand,
successful more than always – powerful – no less.

His method, less than clear; his target, everyone.
His mind, complex and dark; his pleas, his twisted fun.

He meets the floor, still greeted by the silent night.
The keys are his; the audience applauds and waits.
His humble bow is perfect, elegance his bait.
And then, in shock, we see his violent, bloody fight,
his sheer expressive force invading sound and sight.
Now no one sees his coldness, hidden from his face,
which lets whatever ambience he wants to make
exist and dazzle, seizing victims by the mind.

Sonnet CLXXXIII

I love the wondrous, strange invisibility
that follows me to so gingerly, just like a bear.
My loud “hello’s” are greeted with a vacant stare,
my movement cast aside as breeze upon the sea.
I rule my small domain – the world surrounding me.
I stand as if a king, and sit without a care,
my presence granted as a regular affair.
When bored, my fear provides amusement – and – for free!
I hear a private conversation (no one sees),
and hidden by his looming shadow – much with ease-
no person questions me, no matter where I go.
Thus bear and I should leave our posts for worthwhile crime –
my hidden person, with his stealthy paradigm
may steal away, and all the world would never know!

Sonnet CLXXXII

The night was bright; alarum, loud as bugle’s call.
I waited for another soul to wake up first,
for fear entreated me until it almost burst.
My feeble mask of calm destroyed by noisy brawl,
my curiosity surmounted me, too tall
for crude containment. Fearing all the very worst,
the courage in my heart enticed me as it nursed;
my person, so possessed, then clambered to the hall.

The night, aflame with lamplights, hid the criminal,
while naked weakness left me unprotected, null.

Upbraiding every door, inspecting carefully,
each room held nothing but our anxious oxygen.
Now beckoned to our beds by found security,
our feet let to the stair, descending not again.

Click here for the story behind this sonnet.

Sonnet CLXXXI

Not cold nor dark, for Death cannot be felt nor seen.
Not silent, sad, nor stark, for Death has lost its ears,
which then were empathetic, now astray on years
and deafened, caring not to listen to your plea.

Not painful for beholders, greeting him with glee,
absurd. Not cruel nor beneficial by one’s fears,
but nonchalant, uncaring – thus bereaved of tears –
which, would it Life, be bitter, copiously seen.

Who felt the Death impending then, its fingers bare,
unsheathed for Life, prepared for new-acquired fare?

It was the almost-dead, deprived of feeling’s vice,
emotion stripped, their closing minds beginning end;
their eyes ablaze with nothingness, their lips a friend
to emptiness, as raw as day, as bright as ice.

Sonnet CCLXXX

I wonder why I wake when other people die.
The sun begins to dim, reflecting on their fate;
the calls of birds seem less like ditties for a mate
and more like delicately grieving, solemn sighs.
My footsteps tread with guilt toward the beastly right.
My eyes draw to the sun and greet its sullen face -
I wonder why I still may see its tepid grace
as Death deprives the living of their human sight.

The world seems cruel on such a bitter morning’s start,
when all the world seems stripped of love and crudely stark.

And what a pain to feel for such that isn’t mine –
as here I am, ungracious, petty, as a toy.
And whilst I sympathise, I do not help – but sigh! –
a most unseemly vice, a most beseeming ploy.

Sonnet CCLXXIX

A new year spreads before me like a snowy page,
another leaf of white awaiting marks and prints.
So much to use – escaping from my fingertips –
a plane of eager time poised on the newer age.

Envisioning what fresher seasons shall engage,
I look – anticipating – to these fields and hints
of what’s to come. The future wakes from sleeping fits –
reluctant – starting unto human guessing games.

The seconds, glittering, unbutton in the snow,
their shining flakes like frosty jewels in the cold!

There’s much anticipation – moods change much within a day –
from boredom of the past to welcoming the new.
The minutes fly – time’s racing by – the skies are blue!
The snowflakes fall – the year’s alight – and so’s the fray!

Sonnet CCLXXVIII

Polyphony, as sumptuous as a rich brocade,
shines vivid crimson with its careful mastery.
A layer through a layer in a tapestry,
inverted motives in the fabric interplay.
One sees the colours, recognising themes like days,
arranged in curlicues of phoenixes and seas
of countersubjects, slit like ruby string,
between the lines of subjects, woven in a braid.
The balanced harmonies, which satisfy each voice
cohere so gingerly, a stitch by stitch with poise,
familiar majesty, a souvenir of old,
a tad bit tarnished from disuse, still grandly frail,
courageous in its use, a kingly conquest sailed –
surmised as luxury, subdued as precious gold.

Sonnet CCLXXVII

She can’t imagine otherwise! The world’s a wreck;
it’s envious and bitter, flashing like a shrew!
What snow, how stupid! Biting at her shining shoe
and vying with its shining face and sloping neck.
What trees, how idiotic! Thinking branches, gems,
when all the world knows hers are best, that hers are new.
What birds, how foolish! Thinking feathers better hues
than chic designer clothes that madden any wren!

What sun, how bright! Should hide her face for fear of shame –
her style’s so last century, and still the same!

But brazen maiden, oh how stupid, oh how proud!
The snow will come again and shine more than your jewels!
The trees sustain, the sun still lives, as does the cloud! –
those birds shall bicker on your grave and laugh at you!

Sonnet CCLXXVI

He hates the mirror. He looks at it and sighs.
It’s hard to looks upon himself and see his face
without detesting it. Deprived of youthful grace,
bereft of happiness, without a joyful smile –
he hates those children, blithe and charming, juvenile;
he hates these families, enjoying time like waste;
he hates and envies all the world, so armed with lies!

For self-contentment’s false; so’s joviality.
The world’s a dark and gaping hole, a mean chicanery.

Or isn’t it because he wishes more from life,
and more of merriment; to see that things are fine?
Or is it that he wants to know that peace of mind,
that feeling, waking up, embracing more than strife?

Sonnet CCLXXV

Intense and bitter were the icy winds he crossed,
his jacket clutched within his anxious, nervous fist.
He walked into the store and glanced upon his list,
evasive of the camera. His hair was tossed,
his face unshaven – eyes like frigid fire, lost.
He snatched a basket; glued it to his quaking wrist.
He clambered through the store, remembered what he missed,
turned back and veered again, to pay for what he bought.

As feared, that same cashier was there, her smile, fake.
She smacked her gum, forgetting him, their love – their hate.

An anger flared like sun. He seized his blanched receipt.
Her eyes acknowledged his. He grabbed his groceries.
He stormed away. He stared upon the ashen sheet.
Her name, impudent, sauntered in his thoughts and teased.

Sonnet CCLXXIV

There’s never greater disappointment than the sun,
meandering, intense and sinister, to you.
You know these curtains whisper in the night, untrue,
exalting in their strange conspiracy of fun.
The sheets are mocking you, awash with yellow dun,
untruthful flattery, so calmly clean and new.
The ceiling’s laughing: crowded frescoes flame your rue,
their stellar constellations pointed as a gun.

There’s never greater disappointment as you turn
and know you must wake up to face your world of spurn.

Go to your windowsill; uncover all the panes.
Regard the light azure with caution – gingerly!
Again you must live under it, and swim its sea,
and move and speak and laugh, and face the world’s disdain.

Sonnet CCLXXIII

Of late, she thinks about herself and how she’s changed.
She’s old, dependent, dying, trapped within her home.
She planned on travelling, to Paris, Cuba, Rome,
but now she lives off pensions, locked inside her cage.
She thinks of youth, and misses it, a bit amazed
at how the time has passed. Her only son is grown –
but stingy – keeping phone calls, money for his own,
while thinking she’s decrepit and deranged.

Her son would never spend a measly dime for her
despite his wealth. She’s raised him all these years, to err!

And yet – to err is only human. What of that?
Forgiveness is divine! If sons decide to scorn,
then who’ll coerce their smiles, forced and falsely warm?
An honest miser’s better than a lying rat.

Sonnet CCLXXII

Momentous, momentary pleasure must secede
to watching weight, so equally as selfish though
a lot less fun; an effort spent with foolish Woe.
How difficult and ravenous the task must be
when such delicious Turkey crowns the Festive Feast!
One smiles, sipping wine, and all the while knows
the foul fowl lights the Greed within the bowel,
a ghastly, menacing, and dangerous Disease.

One smacks their lips, a wolf delighted with their Hare;
but truly, is it hare or Wolf that’s now ensnared?

A-rumbling in the antechamber of the gut,
a trembling Fire burns, the inkling of Desire.
One takes the fork and grabs a bite as now the pyre
alights, ignites, and rages like a dirty Smut.

Sonnet CCLXXI

Curvaceous hips and comely bosom, virgin smile,
with hazel eyes of gloating satisfaction’s glaze.
And hers embraced his eyes, abashed and full of praise,
exalting her, subjected to her nude beguile.

His mind was hers, commanded by her cunning wile;
his feet, two frozen pillars; eyes and brain, ablaze;
and all this time she waits and like a lion, plays,
manipulating him like worthless clay now worth her while.

The crowd moves on, a patter on the marble floor
to fresher art, abandoning the brazen whore.

And lest he be removed from all the blatant rest,
he saunters on, uprooting from his rude desire.
The whore remains, a frozen painting made of fire,
the temptress drawing newer victims to her breast.

Sonnet CCLXX

My mind is partly put at fault for arson’s crime,
although the world provides the fuel and grime.

Sequestered in a quiet room, the world’s alight:
surrounding winds destroy the silence with their games
and thoughts ignite my barren walls with tarnished flames.
My windows bring the sun in, seat him at my right,
his bars of light as gracious as a gentle dame’s.
My pencil flying, unaware, preparing, aims,
then picks the marks and sends me soaring, off to write.

Sprayed on the page, one never sees the criminal;
the Inspiration’s hidden; so’s Identity.
Perhaps the only thing you’ll see is memory,
collected here, a souvenir of short ago.

Sonnet CCLXIX

The awning seemed like fire, flapping in the breeze:
a palish beige flickering and whipping hot,
there perched upon a small gazebo’s wooden lot.
If only I were not infirm of strength, so weak!
To be that awning – how resiliently neat,
aflame with strange desire, burning smartly raw,
established on a vantage point aloof, afar,
a kingly simpleton, so crude, yet full of ease!

No water puts it out; no wind detracts its flare;
and only change of season – change of taste – may dare.

An instant, flapping in the autumn, in the fall,
now in the winter, flapping on the wooden beams.
Who dares remove such strange and fierce audacity,
combating flames with insolence and naughty gall?

Sonnet CCLXVIII

I find the world today requires desperate aid:
- politics: all the world’s a-brew and needs its law
- environment: the world’s unzipping as it thaws
- economy: recession; wealth unfairly paid
- humanity: our bunch, becoming more abate
- society: all wanton with its plastic gods
- our health: destroyed with every fry in paw
- tradition: culture pasted over, blue and grey

When shall salvation rescue us from grief and strife?
Where is our superhero? Busy with his life?

What we can do is make ourselves informed and wise:
destroy our atrophy with pride and dignity,
imbued with purpose, duty, hospitality –
and only then can Earth be salvaged from us mice.

Sonnet CCLXVII

A battered ship entangled in the breeze, it shakes
and creaks, belying strength one thinks it should portray.
I doubt its oblong cage, although its massive plane
proves warmer than the seas of air that now invade.

As is if some demon, churning at the sides and panes,
these winds do not relent, but carry on and bray,
forgetting all their summer cousins, filled with grace.
These winds instead encourage enmity, disdain.

Oh turbulent and wicked! Fear exalts my face,
now lifted, wishing that I had the faith to pray.

Instead, within this home my hopes remain for life.
Within, I find seclusion from the chill and cold
through artificial means. For life I beg and hold,
which storms prove frail compared to frigid winter strife.

Sonnet CCLXVI

My life’s a yellow yarn, but not the kind that lies –
the kind that spins, from forth my hands, to sombre death.
Entwining me, enveloping, constricting breath,
my life is not a yarn perhaps – a noose, at times –
then other times it seems unravelling and bright,
the backwards handiwork of grannies put to bed
with thread, awakening then to see it gone and dead
and life destroyed, and never waking from its time.
Who knows just where the scissors chomp? Not I nor you,
but shrewd Atropos knows! She rests her shears and brews
a cup of tea. And all the while, searching here,
we wonder if the end is near or if it’s not,
and as we think, immortal Fates imbibe and plot
- and spin – while here we are, rope’s end and all with fear.

Sonnet CCLXV

His bones were light, much lighter than my brother’s now.
I felt his weight and found my awe-struck self aware
of what he weighed. Accustomed to a burden’s fare,
his feather-heaviness was welcome to my bow.

A child’s magnitude, however, weighs a cloud.
What lightness shall belie, a tantrum will repair;
how little years mislead, commanding ways make rare;
what innocence portrays is shattered by a growl.

Their paradox: a double personality,
a drop and perseverant anger fills the sea.

These things I thought while gently prodding him along,
amazed at how compliant he could seem;
while deep within there lay a monstrous, wicked beast,
which once provoked would never cease to shriek its song.

Sonnet CCLXIV

I cannot write in prose; I’ve lost the simple art.
Its sentences are hopeless chains I cannot move,
its massive paragraphs, the bricks I mustn’t use.
I love my dainty forms, succinct and sharply tart,
creative, flexible, compliant to my heart –
but structured if I wish. There’s logic in its shoe,
which taps a metre one may recollect anew -
but prose is sensible and sombre; rigid, smart.
I rhyme, creatively insert a spicy word;
but prose requires plans and links and sense to work –
the things I gladly flee. I lack the sanity;
I hate reality; I’d rather hide in scenes,
subjective to the viewer’s eye, and comforting –
than sketch my life objectively, and vividly.

Sonnet CCLXIII

The winter wind was moaning pessimistically,
its foghorn worn and overused, a tad bit flat.
It sang some weary minuet; it dancers sat,
for having heard the ditty, wouldn’t move their feet.

Still rasping to the point of boredom’s crude retreat,
the winter wind turned more aggressive, almost mad.
It shrieked but none complied. They picked about their plaid
as if their petty qualms could help them spurn the breeze.

A train then rumbled, wary of the wind at hand.
A semitone apart, their sighs proved dissonant.

The train then parted, sharply on its rigid cue.
The wind remained, unflapped, eternal, overcast –
and stays when even winter parts and trains move past,
its dancers long since dead, the sky turned brightly blue.

Sonnet CCLXII

How green-eyed is the painter of the sunset’s hues!
He cannot capture them and put them in his pot
nor even copy them with dowdy paints he’s bought.
And yet, he loves the sunset, marvels in its blues!

How covetous the dancer is of sunset’s moves!
She cannot be as subtle by the way she’s taught
nor just as strong, capricious, eloquently raw.
And yet, she loves the sunset, worshipping its shoes!

How wishful is the singer of the sunset’s tones!
She cannot radiate the warmth beyond the West
nor speak her beauty only with a moment’s rest.
And yet, she loves the sunset, stores it in her bones!

How jealous are the arts against the sunset’s grace –
and yet, look how they love its flaxen face!

Sonnet CCLXI

If winds would carry me, I’d fly to Neptune’s globe.
I’d stay awhile, wrapped in furs there, merrily,
the clouds of noxious gases swimming like a sea.
Perhaps you’d see me, dancing in the evening’s lobe,
an earring topaz-blue, a shining memory.
As darkness spreads, my piercing punctures holes to see,
the sequins shining in the woman’s nightly robe.

I’d wink at you, but all you’d see is twinkling light,
the lofty ritual of stars within the night.

One cannot tell the quasars from the galaxies
nor what the constellations render anymore.
One cannot see my face in Neptune’s tiny orb
nor even find it, lost within the hidden East.

Sonnet CCLX

I cannot die to live, but always live to die:
my life is spinning out to death from just a thread,
attached to my beginning, birth beyond my head.
I’m like the paradox of day, which also dies,
despite its burst of lustre, bright Aurora’s red,
and in the end it cedes to night, unto its death
of sleep, unknowing, to another shining life.

But do I know for sure what sequel lies beyond?
Shall death’s old moon prevail or shall the sun stay round?

Perhaps the day does not just die to deathly night,
for from the morning, life turns to a brighter death –
the Noon – which grows with larger brilliance of breath,
reanimated from my corpse, the umbra’s light.

Sonnet CCLIX

Si tout le monde me fuit, je vendrai tout mes pleurs.
Et si personne n’achète mes pleurs, je les boirai.
Ainsi, les pleurs que j’aurai bu mettent à pleurer,
et dans cette belle façon, je flotte, je noie, je meurs.
Comme ça je pense, je meurs. Ce n’est pas franc de l’or,
mais tout le monde ne voient pas plus ma tristesse laide.
Peut-être inondés comme moucherons de mai,
ils semblent comme les grands aveugles, sans ses cœurs.

Ainsi, j’ondule à tout mes océans qui passe,
et même dans le décès je les regarde en masse.

Les océans me semblent comme les vrais amis:
ils recueillissent mes larmes comme souvenirs;
ils ne protègent de mal, monstrueux, nuisible, pire,
avec sa forte puissance qui mange mon corps et ri.

Sonnet CCLVIII

I spy a certain death amidst those barren trees,
for winter’s stripped their life with such a bitter whip.
Of late, their leaves have fled, replace with bitter sticks;
their luscious bark now roughened by the wintry breeze.
If I should cross their criss-cross path about my knees,
I’d rip their branches to a mince and they would rip
my precious skin to blood. Entangled limb to limb,
my blood – as well, their arms – would fall beyond my feet.

I’d pick it up, my blood, so desolate and red,
I’d pick them up the sticks, and toss them overhead.

They’d fall again; I’d gather them, the wooden hands,
and hold them, recollecting loss to recreate.
As if performing divination, then I’d wait
and count my grievances while gathering the land.

Sonnet CCLVII

A word is water, ever-changing, fickle, cold.
I pour you some, returning you to liquid thoughts,
which cannot live unless one drops the wordy drops.
We cannot tell if words have stayed in mind till old,
for forethought cannot permeate a water drop,
though colours do, and flavour can imbue with awe,
though plain remains, perhaps as dull and just as bold.

But like the water too, when words are spent and soiled,
they’re irretrievable and left at sea to cloy.

Then happenchance shall seal it with a kiss
of icy permanence. And shall it stay so proud?
Or melt away in vapour, gaseous like a cloud,
evaporating, sharing life, or else, abyss?

Sonnet CCLVI

I wonder why the world is always smiling
when so much of our lives are so consumed with woe.
Perhaps a pessimistic view; I dare not prose:
the explanation’s long and riddled with my tears.

Well, all the world’s a-smiling, except for me.
It almost seems the world is ill - perhaps that’s so -
where everyone is gleeful, dancing to and fro –
but probably it’s me that has the malady.

Oh yes, I am an invalid – don’t come too close!
I’m leprous – crude contagion seems to be my woe.

But let me here, in sadness. Do not let me sting.
Exist in happiness; exclude me from your guild.
I will come back to join you later – save your guilt.
I hope my sadness flees, or else come rescue me.

Sonnet CCLV

What shining snow beyond my windowpane! How brown!
Surrounded by the gaping grass, a strange chartreuse,
the splendid plane of lawn glows as a muddy mousse!
To think, the snow is sparse and what, December now?
I think myself too lucky for Pollution’s frown!
These clumps of snow, so gently touched by sun and goose,
are spread with canine excrement of darkish poop –
what chance – Pollution’s work! How kindly she endows,
and what a mastermind! As searing as a flame,
disrupting Old Man Winter’s stupid, foolish game -
salvation like prophetic scripture, free of vice!
Pollution favours us! We giggle at her touch,
which slaps the frozen earth and turns it to a mush,
exalting strange, unnatural warmth, obstructing ice!

Sonnet CCLIV

An anxious Andrew bashed his shopping cart around
and packed in cookies; slapped in juices, yellow, red;
then grabbed his wife’s requests and zipped the way ahead.
His enemy was Time, his watch so cruelly round,
while rushing to the checkout; seconds like wet hounds,
their fangs a-dripping. Pulling through to aisle ten,
to checkout nine, where those with items eight or less
were bound to head, he fast advanced! But turning round -

He saw the stupid crackers he forgot in haste.
He raced reverse – the party would be starting soon!
And now he had an item more – so nine – how cruel!
The hand struck three – upon his shaking, fumbling wrist –

Anxiety then melted to a laughing howl –
his watch was early – almost by a half an hour!

Sonnet CCLIII

I read her voice; I feel her sound; I hear her voice:
such is the spell that Emily still casts on me.
It’s only then – united through perception’s tree –
entwined between experience – we interlace.

The print is tactile, racing on my palms and face:
envelop me and let me ponder in your seas;
ignite my heart and send it spinning to the breeze;
exalt my sorrow – join it to your victim-tray.

And hang my heavy head to this – your clientele –
and cast a charm with ink, and dance your wicked spell.

Bewitch me; pour a poisoned potion; drown me now:
instruct me to behold myself in sorrow’s nest;
to fly away as birds, unto the rising West,
a voyage to a distant tree, a distant bough.

Sonnet CCLII

Oh Frosty Jack, what maiden has afflicted you?
How frigid her rejection; even more your rage!
How turbulent your frosty fury, now uncaged,
unleashed in wicked anger, pallid, ashen, shrewd!

How wickedly your shattered heart has come to brew!
A broken mix of icy tears, a bitter mace,
a weapon ripping wounds, exposing them to air,
a wintry blizzard seeking crude revenge anew.

Please spill that chilly blood again, you wintry fiend,
and let me suffocate on such a pungent drink!

You liked me not; how cruel of you to let me live!
You should have slayed me in the dark of day, for now
I cannot die! Hence Frost and I shall share our vow
of misery, eternal, evermore so acrid!

Sonnet CCLI

The winter’s such a crude reminder of your face –
how could you be so frigid in this time of warmth?
These wintry hexagons shall always be a storm
and never beauty, only wickedness, light grey,
so pallid, lethal in betrayal – oh, such grace! –
that murders me, and murders me, and snaps my heart,
which melts, refreezing to the bitter, icy stars
of winter – snowflakes – delicately, cruelly made.

And snow I shovel, push away in growing piles.
But you – I cannot purge – yet you have purge my wiles.

And what have I but tattered snowflakes, littering,
polluting blank expanse within my asphalt mind,
obstructing darkness with the ancient hope of time?
Now even Spring cannot amend my shabby wings.

Sonnet CCL

I have a little dog - her name is Butterfly.
I take her to my school. I carry her to bed.
She used to have a ribbon, nice and long and red,
but then I took it off, and said to it, “Goodbye!”

My doggie is my friend – because she cannot lie.
She doesn’t hit me, though at times she’s bruised and red
from violent gallops, lunchtime, journeys in our bed;
the spaceship rides to planets, green and huge and high.

When Mommy washes her, I feel so sad and blue,
but when she’s done, my doggie’s such a different hue!

Adventures with my doggie make my life so bright
although she’s silent. Still, a friend’s that’s silent’s best.
She doesn’t bite me, hurt, betray, or make a mess –
she’s comfort for my heart, and cuddly in the night!

Sonnet CCXLIX

I do not know what Silence is, but know its sound:
a hissing furnace, meshing cars at falling dusk.
At least, when coming close, the closing silence trusts
I know its call. Descending, almost mutely loud -

I do not know how Silence feels, but know its touch:
sensation dawning on my scalp, a tactile musk,
an odour visible as darkness, vast and brusque.
I know the call. But Silence flees my waiting brow –

It angers me: and even now, my silent words
are setting minds about, as noisy, crowing birds.

Perhaps in Death I’ll see my Silence, though it keeps
no bulky form, and cruel sensation’s gift shall die.
Or maybe Death has other feelings for our eyes:
why Sleepers never wake from blissful, silent Sleep.

Sonnet CCXLVIII

The love of youth, one says, is but a fleeting lie.
I hope my love is constant so my love is true,
but how can I defy the wisdom and the rue
or wicked Age and Time? I must obey or die,
for Death escapes the loop of Time and that of Life;
and Death defies the customs of the Ageist Rule.
But Life and Love, entangled with the nasty two,
are thus subject to foul wickedness and strife.

Oh Thisbe, why so fleeting from the lioness?
It proves a better death than love’s cruel happiness!

Alas, we love, we hurt, commend our sighs above -
for if my love is fickle, cast me to my death,
and Love will share my sudden robbery of breath.
Oh such a Fate, oh such a fleeting whim of love!

Sonnet CCXLVII

I wish I could just mail this snapshot to your mind;
enclose it in a postcard’s monumental square:
for how these words dilute the how and when and where -
but now they’re all I have. I save the scraps I find
and knit them. Knit them. Knit them, hoping something’s right.
And no, it’s never perfect – never is. Despair.
My strange despair. I edit, groping, grasping air –
and all these lowly, meagre words are all I find.

Oh, just as well, I guess. Indite, indict my soul:
extract experience and hang it here in gold.

Or silver’s passable. Or maybe bronze or black.
Or blue, all splattered in explosions all in rage;
on napkins from the pizzeria; Yellow’s page;
a rotting test; or salvaged splinters – wooden track.

Sonnet CCXLVI

The fire in the frost, a raging coldness here -
is beautiful in form, entwined in frosty leaves.
White diamonds, precious gems, are hidden in those eaves
like earrings made of ice, and shining like a tear.

My heat dissolves the fire – touching there, I sear.
A window opens up, upon the pane from me,
until, within the handiwork, a gap I see
and fingers five of mine so mutely there appear.

The spiny trees I see, through window’s window seen,
and frost imposes on their shapely, tepid green.

I leave the bus. The wind is bitter, though I see
the funny, backward things the kids had scribed in words.
Adorning them, the frost appears like trees or birds,
perhaps a souvenir of bus ride scenery.

Sonnet CCXLV

Let’s hide away in dark, concealed from all the world;
and so alone we shall not be, but lone together here.
The outside world is noisy, loud, and full of cheer
as brooding, broth of us succumb to silence, pure.

Oh join us, friend, oh gladly join our dismal hurt.
Has Fate rejected you? Has Pleasure shed a tear?
Oh what a joy to hide, and such a wondrous year:
a year of dismal joy, a life of hidden hurt.

In darkness dancing, only voices transfer words,
and if our ears do die, our fingers fly like birds.

And if they die in darkness, what a happy death!
They’d die together here, so smothered in our grief.
And if the world is cold, it didn’t steal our breath.
We shunned its happy face and carved it in relief.