Unlubricated gears and levers scream.
Come, scrape the skin-snug coat of rust aside
until it opens wide. It opens wide
to lap up light and air like cats drink cream.
What scuttles scatters shrapnel in its haste
to carve a deeper crack and crawl inside.
Rust, filth and dust and I lived where they hide.
Fed on my love, they ate and could not taste.
Now here comes sun, to lay their home to waste
to heal my twisted, mechanistic name,
re-forge me, sleek, new, polished till I glow.
They flee who once consumed me now. I chased
the morning star until my hands caught flame
and burned down hell, the only place I know.


It kinda sucks. Yeah, yeah it really does. Cause I've had a long, long spell without writing any poetry at all and my image-maker is rusty. Eventually I will move out of sonnets, but I feel like I want to hide in sonnets for while because they're so easy. Like you know you can make spaghetti with cheese'n'peas and it's easy as hell and good, so you make it like four days in a row. Sonnets are totally my spaghetti. Easy and always at least vaguely edible.