(cough) I'm not backlogging. Who said I was backlogging? This sonnet was totally on time.
On Stuff
It's rare, the stuff that gives my spirit rise -
not swaths of light. Those perfect, shining skies
don't work for me. I never caught my breath
on gilded seas, or sunlight's daily death.
Give me instead a girl with patient thighs,
an unrepentant bowl of soup. The warmth
of February frost. A thunderstorm.
I hear a lot of talk of wondrous sights,
of beauty in this world. The pallid heights
are fallacy. Beauty always dies.
And beauty never cares about you, too.
So why seek beauty? Know what's true to you.
I want a life without too many lies,
a quiet death, and all that it implies.
The Weekly Sonnet is exactly what it sounds like. Every week, there'll be a shiny new sonnet for your perusal; some will be traditional, some will be not so much, some will test the boundaries of what exactly a sonnet is. It's a project, an experiment, and a hobby all rolled into one. All materials published on this page are copyrighted to Warmonger Smurf. If you publish any segment of this site without my permission, I will sneak into your house at night and pee on your toothbrush.
1 comment:
Patient thighs can be found in spades at lower-body burn wards.
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