Sonnet XXV

Turn poet blood to ink and share this moment.
The midnight oil burns, becomes an icon.
An eye, an open mine where rays are roaming,
keeps fostering a broken glass of mankind.
Two crystals hoard rough synonyms to comment
bold words of crossing lines and chords of striking.
The brightness gives me chills, connects, and foments
illicit spirits to intrigue my psyche.
All souls are birds. The cageless state forms legions
of those who shall sustain its sighs in candles
and featherbed for lonely eyes a salter.
Oh God, your grant is pectoral, a pigeon.
The midnight oil burns, becomes a cradle,
the breathless presence where a word is haltered.

March 1, 2011