Sonnet CLXXXII

Outside, crusaders in the blowing breeze
have battled everyday on walks to school.
They chatter frozen mouths and teeth in cool,
inviting wind and shiver icy knees.
Though chilled, the warriors still persevere
and brawl against the wind, so cold and cruel.
Although without a colour or a hue,
invisibly thus hides that enemy.

But armed are they, with mittens and with gloves,
with cherries on their backs that hold their books,
and knitted hats that flaunt their strengthened might,
While staunchly shielded by a mother’s love.
they sail their seas, still fighting as we look
and like two kites they sail beyond our sight.

Sonnet CLXXXI

They claw the sky with fingers, black and long.
They fly across the sea like ink on white.
They screech and yell with maddened, wicked might
and cackle like the demons in a throng.

With twelve Valkyries rightly they belong,
proceeding on their journey through the night.
Obsessive over such a wicked flight,
unwavering, determined, never wrong.

What lovely beasts are these? Whence do they fly?
Perhaps eternity is where they fly,
but never reaching it, they never die.
What cleverness they must possess to fly
from death! So simply death they have defied,
demise they have absolved and fear defied.

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.