Digesting the disasters of divorce
projected to the whirlwinds in your glass
of Chardonnay you sipped alone, the morse
of slyish slander, raindrop-rumors pass
as morsels left of mother’s Sunday steak.
You listened listlessly to serpent’s hiss
invading corners, and you slept awake,
and when I came you faked a smile of bliss.
For many years, it grew, a sheen, so green;
that hid behind the bluebells in your eyes,
you felt invaded by another queen,
a dame of darkness — created from the lies
of sea-foam and the emptiness of brine
in tears that germinate in ice-cold wine.
Linked to the Tuesday Platform at toads. This is the eighth installment of my heroic sonnet corona. Previous ones can be found here:
Bluebells, The tear of tears, Before the monsters, When we had built a nest, Let’s mend the bridges, Your icicles and Our highway through the sky.
April 21, 2015