Sonnet I: Mirror

To feel my hand upon a shape, a form
I find familiar in its drape: though known,
It overwhelms my hand by touch alone,
Though sight and sound and scent and savour warm

Me to its thrill, its pleasurable norm,
And call me to its side.  And I alone
May know I should confide in that I own,
And hence am owned by that which I transform.

I feel it know at once, as once I know
The day such stark perfection will arrive.
I know reflexively, almost as though
The figure in the mirror comes alive

And reaches out with anything but this:
A touch of any kind, except a kiss.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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Intro 1: A Wish

Most definitely
Take care, for what you don’t wish,
You might not receive;

And take special care,
For when you make no wishes,
None will be granted.

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Sonnet III: Scions

More tragic still are They Who, yet unborn,
May never be; or Who, once born were not
To ever see what prize Their Birthright bought.
Olympian, Their Blood aflame; yet mourn

They not, for know They not, how They were torn
From out Their Mothers’ Arms while still She fought,
Believing They, with Holy Blood, could naught
But thrive. They know Their Legacy as scorn;

Yet not why They, your legions, chafe to join.
‘Til you, upon Their Mothers’ Throne, decree
And point “This is a god; and this is not.”
Defining ugliness as beauty, point
And sneer “Art thou as beautiful as we?”
But fear to know the answer you have wrought.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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Intro 3: I Think I Now See:

How will evil fall?
Shall it be ground underneath
Purely distilled truth?

Truth and good and right
And beauty cannot be stopped.
Many will have died–

For this, gladly die.
For truth is all that we have.
Truth, and nothing else.

All beauty and right
All goodness and all kindness
Come from perfect truth.

Distilled by reason
Distilled by our harmony
With the truth itself.

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Sonnet I: Creators

And who are you who rape my Gods when long
Have They returned to ash, and dust, and bone?
What right have you to dash Them, cruelly thrown
And bleeding, from the Heights where They belong?

And who are you ignoble beasts; you throng,
Who violate and scourge Them unbeknown,
Then take your turn upon each vacant Throne
While still They fall, unknowing, from this wrong?

Do you believe your acts are in the right;
As though belief could claim to sanction rape?
Or take you carnal pleasure in the night,
While horrified Their past devoted gape?
Or do you quake with fear while knowing well:
The least such lie will have you burn in Hell?

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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Intro 1: “Creators 2: The Return… This time… it’s personal!”

It’s more direct now.
I Like this version better.
Much more personal.

It now has the punch
I wish I could deliver
With my own two fists.

What is that light, now,
Raging from the east? A sun?
Many more will rise.

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