Imperfect Sonnet

Photo by&#160;<a href="https://www.pexels.com/@designecologist?utm_content=attributionCopyText&#38;utm_medium=referral&#38;utm_source=pexels">Designecologist</a>&#160;from&#160;<a href="https://www.pexels.com/photo/heart-shaped-red-neon-signage-887349/?utm_content=attributionCopyText&#38;utm_medium=referral&#38;utm_source=pexels">Pexels</a><br/><br/>Are sonnets made for love or love for verseso terrible in all its finite breath;you say a little something and it goesuntil it ends: a destiny in stone,a heartbeat measured by its final drumagainst a lover's ribs. A poem's a hearsewe carry in our chests. It drives aroundto every little madness it can findand drags us through the mud. These tire tracksare nothing, lover, never mind the cracksthat blossom so. Now, take your battering,for every love comes with a smatteringof bruises, aches, and pain; imperfect songsimmortalize the bitterest of wrongs. <br/><br/>Get full access to Sonnets &c. at <a href="https://zjppoetry.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast">zjppoetry.substack.com/subscribe</a>