The words- oh your words! They swirl in the blood.
A fervour that warms and guides to the shore;
A cleansing wave that appeases the flood;
The shout of savagery that begins the war.
Each word is a wing, a hope to cling to
Before a bland, black force rips them away.
We need energy to fight! To make it through-
Wood for rafts, words for us, and both decay.
But I hate you, I do- take it all back!
These gossamer wings that were never mine.
For now, I feel everything that I lack-
No hope for Pandora; no silver line.
A sonnet to poets, well overdue.
But for you, dear heart, a warning for you.
