Sonnettics

She stands, stretched out in graceful strength before
reflections of her youth, her beauty, gold
becomes a dull comparison, no more
than something bought and something cheaply sold.
But this, extruded beauty, more than form
of youthful goddess dancing in her sky,
like gentle lightning, heralding a storm
of passion, like the thundering reply
of some obscure, humiliated man
who knows no better worship than his shout
which signifies his lack of any plan
but opens up his heart and lets it out
in freedom’s best impression of intent,
his passion is immediately spent.

There’s blood beneath my skin which gives me life
as close to death as strips of sharpened steel–
a razor’s edge, the blade of Abram’s knife.
My faith coagulates; I cease to feel
the cuts of barbed-wire fence, the jagged tear
of rusted metal scraping through my flesh,
the nails of Romans forcing me to bear
the intersecting cross of life and death.
It’s warm for just a moment as it seeps
into the world of degradation; shame
enlightens every second as it creeps
toward some inconsequential, holy blame.
There is no cup, no chalice you can drink
to pull you back from life’s eternal brink.

I take my wine to swallow my regrets–
prescribed too late for pain, but not for sleep;
affliction sharpens memory and lets
my mind reject what soul decides to keep.
I share my wine with everyone I meet
within the consultations of my dreams
of soft inebriations which compete
for my affection even though it seems
that all my perfect flesh is still alone
in desperation’s comfortable embrace.
And though I should have kissed you, had I known
that this would be regret, I would replace
my wine with all my memories of you
and trade your kiss for all I ever knew.