The Severed Storm

Wanted to try my hand at a sonnet.

Grasping at straws like they're needles, carving
Obsessed scrawls on my spider's fingers, I've
Always felt your hand in this; I'm starving
For your presence, like a drone craves the hive.

Or worse, I fear the truth of royalty:
Pledging my heart to a heartless ersatz.
Your ghost thrills my centre: depravity
My brittle context, my soul that frays at

The edges, and all the while wanting you
To vindicate this feckless fixation.
For years, we danced a reckless pas de deux
Birth and life and mirth, then strife: cessation.

My most thundrous heart so yearns for lightning
But the darkness of your face is frightening.

The End

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