Tuesday, 14 January 2014


My heart was an ember
          and you blew on it;
took out your blade
          and carved 'true' on it.

You blew on my fire
          with a faraway wind;
it took for ever to come,
          but time does magic.

Now, as I unwind,
          I wonder, will it stop?
But no: this fire is strong;
          this last act is long: not tragic.
All sonnets must end
          with a rhyming couplet,
but when I look at your form
          I see formless -

So fuck it.

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