Pseudopsychosis.

Disturbs in grave repentance cracking upon the ocean’s rattle,
buckling swords like a python’s tongue, madness I billow
in the dusk, drysalter’s poison that pierces me in battle
a fool’s dance sparred, soon falling as a leaf of willow;

the razor edge of fate, wearing bone and caitiff dust
in father’s displease, death tantrums veins of the ghost
lauded violence in the stains of the abattoir, darkly lust
a plea to no heaven, as fingers lie from coquette’s oath;

abyssals red—mercy is laughable, the sword kneels a kill
unbridled nature swells where poison provides a fray
within my body, eclipses against me with pride instilled,
yet in this dance abandon I never move father away;

from venom enduring in death to silence,
brushes toward this redress as violence.

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Reposted for Ingrid’s Sonnet Sunday. The topic should have something to do with love and well, sonnets. Not sure if this is quite a love sonnet, God only knows…

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