A sonnet

Please tear it completely apart.

I think in one of the lines I stray away from iambic pentameter, but I forgot which.




Black Hanging Threads

With what joyous words should a poem begin
So vast in scope and lavish in love?
Lips lie still when sight lies on your grin
Commands the dormant strings of harps above
Black threads are pulled from this pen askew
On this white plain, they are never in place
So what divine calling must they go through
To show a fraction of your holy grace?
In tombs of dust the tainted threads are lain
Weeping, for apt they will nevermore be
My sinning hands, bearing the pleasant pain
The strings of woven slander, plain to see
And those threads that hang in solace and mourn
Contrast the bliss from which sonnets are born