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His veins are dim canals that twist, and turn.
A labyrinth of blood, a mirrored path,
That ushers me toward the silent burn
Of sixty candles, glowing in his hearth.

He does not see me raise my hand, nor press
My sickly fingers to the window pane.
He stands, a statue, cold to my distress
As shards of glass lodge in my eyes again.

And as I, bleeding, turn to make my way
Down iron-scented avenues of lies
I contemplate the way he'd smile, and say
that eager hearts were something to despise.

If I were wise, then blinded, I would see
like some Greek Hero, in a tragedy.
©2007-2010 ~gachigon
:icongachigon:

Author's Comments

Sonnet. Not much else to say.

Comments


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:iconanais-hart:
I love it, it captures the whole thing very well. 10 points!
:iconvos:
I have a feeling I know what this is about, but regardless of my distaste for the subject matter, this is a very sexy sonnet. And they are not easy to write. I am very fond of the ending. And I am going to favourite it. JUST TRY AND STOP ME

--
[I Am Fortune's Fool.]
You're not the first to think that everything has been thought before.

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June 19, 2007
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