My fingers
in the crimson paint
sink deeper
& I

surge.
The strokes are Bold at first,
screaming out with dying yearn
then drying, feathring out to fade-
hairy wisps now all but hoarse,
like loins of lamb spent
yawning 'cross the blade.

I trace the curves
of arteries & veins,
of nights made false,
made wretched with the Feign-

The pretense thick & dripping.
Costumes cut & slippers slipping
Out of ventricles
& open valves,
to stomp on days spent long outgrowing
meager missing halves.

The pigment clots, dries.
This heart of mine
my Magnum Opus, done.

09/08/2009

Author's Note: Hello again. Sonnet 116.

Posted on 09/09/2009
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