sonnet

The worst of it is how you blithely flit

upon the moistened corner of my eye;

unbidden swing on lilt of thoughtless sigh,

jig windily from ghastly braided wit.

The worst of it is in the madd’ning itch –

red runnels ragged-torn mayn’t exhume

your disquiet from sallow, nerveless tomb.

False life makes jest of hope with every twitch.

The worst of it is startling from your breast

to echoes of my name; their pleading chains

encumb’ring day by haunted nights’ remains –

cold iron lies your lordly eyes attest.

The worst of it; the sweetness of your breath

would charm, but for the honest reek of death.

~