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.