sonnet for silence

As silence from your lips does drip again

I cannot even rage, as I have been

In this same state before (a time or ten)

Awaiting that your mouth my ear might bend

 

For who am I to rail against this fate

Which binds me to each action, false or true

Whose bands of wood I could no more negate

Than my own name, whose scar I can’t eschew

 

If masochism is my stock-in-trade

Then you must be that ailment’s greatest prize

I hand you up the hilt of sorrow’s blade

You pay me with aversions of your eyes

 

Apprenticed to the master of disdain

These words, these lines, this course is preordained

 

 

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