Sorry for the onslaught of poems derived from this single poem, Sonnet, by Billy Collins, but once I’ve tasted the sweet nectar of the fruit of the muse, it’s hard for me to walk away. So, here’s another loose take on the sonnet from the least talented sonneteer you’ll ever cross paths with.
Your Love is a Blade
Your love is not a dewdrop sliding along
the rose petal of my heart. Honestly, whose love is
a dewdrop sliding along the rose petal of one’s heart?
Your love is not the golden growth of sunlight
as it shimmers atop the riverbed
at the dawning of the day.
Neither is it a quiet waltz through the graveyards of the dead,
two souls dancing like drops of mercury,
silhouettes silvered from the moonlight overhead.
No, yours is more the cold prick of steel
as you click open your switchblade
and jam it into the temple of my heart’s beating head.
Your love is a bloody blade, and though you’ve left me
here to die before, I love you just the same.
