(Maybe I’ll infinitely regret posting a sonnet, of all things, the day I put it together, like a hangover, but today it’s right to me at least.)
God, give me a coal unto my lips, for this
Too much for my dim-doomed expression is;
Give me no word; opinion careful measure,
Not rattle-tattle chaos of my pleasure,
Which often, late, has been a joy to me
But now I’ve made a bond of being free.
So take my lips, and mould them soft to you;
Let them be shaped, exquisitely, but true.
If I should lose my edges rough,
Become a sphere: is that enough?
For you I will become completely round.
For love of you I do these things,
So that my voice harmonious rings:
Two together make a perfect sound.