shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Sommer Nectarhoff


Sonnet Nine

As if I were forlorn I fell, and fall,
Through summer, winter's crawl. The seasons fled,
In pull and pall, while Death's cold breath chilled all–
Until e'en the sun was black, not red.
I dreamt I slept in dark and woke in dark,
And woke but did not dream, the earth was gone,
No moon, nor stars, did pock the night's high arc–
But in gray shadow-light saw I a fawn,
And with a knife of silver bright, I cut
Under her fur, warm flesh so soft and ripe,
And sliced away through innocence and gut
Till none was left, not less a spit of tripe.
Thus day by day I slaughtered life–until
One morn like night–I found no blood to spill.