|Oct/Nov 2016 Poetry Special Feature|
Neurotic Love Sonnet
Looking at you, I fear you're all illusion;
Snap my fingers, nothing will remain.
When you speak it's as if there's fusion
Between your unusual mind and my own brain.
I'm not one to believe in magic tricks—
Not that my imagination isn't fertile—
But no one's ever made me quite this sick
With love (I think); my thoughts are all in circles.
And so I've taken to this form of Shakespeare's
Thought it is cliché (by just a smidge)
Because these words I write won't disappear
Even if you do, across some heavenly bridge.
So stay here, hold me in your charm;
I've used up all my words, what's the harm?