A_Perfect_Sonnet

Ben Stivers
1/11/05

From What Remains, I’m Sure It Wont Take Much More to Destroy It, and Everything We Left In Our Wake Can Rebuild the Fallen

Breathe out the fucking smoke, cause it's a dead ringer on the operating table, hitting the eleventh round knockout bell, in these silent morning hours. And I'm still fucked on this table; I'm still starving for the attention of someone who will yell out my name.

And scream out a prayer for those who have left us this past year.

Some say it was selfish to do what I had to,
But others say brazen, for my Machiavellian attitude.
And if this staircase was a venture for disaster,
Then tell it to the to the former and leave nothing for the latter.

But look at my face and tell me it wasn’t the sun that did this.

We could spread this all out and leave the timing to watches stolen from out wrists, and one more painful kiss could remind her of who she’s been missing, but a bitter reminder of who else she’s been kissing. But look at my face and tell me it wasn’t love that drove us.

Spare me from the cross,
I’ll bear my sins on my chest.
And when the Romans lay dead in my wake,
There will be nothing left but what the aftermath of their mistakes
Blessed.
And go forth,
As if your mission was to cover the earth,
And live life without love.