Sonnet CLXXX

Satiric knife, as biting as the wind,
which cuts into my paper leaves like ice.
And bleeding blood, as blue and bright as bice,
my paper sheds behind its cryptic hints,
such cryptic hints within such other means
as strange, complex rhetoric, metaphors,
the pulsing veins of such I’ve said and more.
But dripping with the blood of revelry
the message is but stark and obvious.
To me at least. To you, it’s just the blood
that streaked the page in violent angriness,
a haunting epitaph that spreads its kiss
and paints your face with dark and heavy mud,
forever stained upon your soul’s abyss.