Screen Time: A sonnet

Your hands are shaking like leaves in the wind.

No one knows to look inside of the soul,

Or how to see these spotted hands have sinned.

Never the less, swallowed words take their toll.

Ah, when the ghost of praise lies with my love,

Never will she see such returns coming

Like rose petals on the stench of death shove

And swallow knowledge of deceit, numbing

The burn of false idols and morning stars.

Fingers licked free of unforgiven blood

That claw and tear at the curtains of farce

Get their names dragged through the bile, slime, and mud.

As is the way with love and politics.

The private is public, said the Marxist.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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