iambicpentameter
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Blow blow thou winter wind
Why hast thou viciously blinded
Me thou hast been wicked
Thou hast past my limit
How could thou change climate
Is this the face that launch’d a thousand ships? Doth Helen envy likely grace within?My joy, thou should’st be sin; thy lovely lipsDo tender kiss my face and all therein;Be so the cause of shipwrecks in thy way
Upon the beating of my rebel heart
Lies weight so heavy I can hardly breathe
I cannot place the feeling, but I know
That things are not as brilliant as they seem
I know those words should come out of my soul
I find that there is no pleasure truer Than playing trumpet alone in the sewer When that exasperating feeling comes I go there to rattle my tympanums
Mysterious she lies in wait for him
Dark hair that flows like evil in her soul
Her eyes catch his and all his dreams go dim
And red her passion glows but begs a toll
Villus burnished chassis still so lush.
Pulchritude soars bound for my sulfur soul.
Sets fire inside to the abandoned brush,
Waiting to fry sitting on beds of coals.
Yet these beds are only simmering skin,
Cold, green grass buried under bare feet,
Shivering, squirming to get loose, to be free,
Wiggling up between toes, afraid of being trapped.
Rasping against skin, embedded into the bones
