I’m going somewhere all alone, without
my hat or coat or heart. You laugh, but soon
the easy times will part to bring about
the numb decay that flaunts a dark maroon
and pea-soup coloured vest. If I could stop
the wailing drips that fall from clocks of time,
or clean the stains of blood—put every drop
in line, this proud old heart I’d claim as mine.
But if one man could fix a world of broken
and helpless bricks, his pride would surely freeze
the windings of his heart that pity had woken.
So I have left my heart behind. The pleas
of pain I cannot heal. And now in true
humility I pray my god renew.
And that there is my third attempt at a shakespearian sonnet.