#wordsofarthur

[wordsofarthur]

Sonnet 4 by Lady Arthur

"There is a kind of guilt upon my hands / One that sleeps and feasts ‘pon one’s sanity / For I love a man who is more than man / And hold beauty that is more than skin deep."

[wordsofarthur]

Sonnet 3

Dust of lechery rest upon thy spine. Aye, one could compare thee to a goddess: Thy frame—baptized in the sweetest of wines, Thick with milk were the apples on her chest. Lay nude before my hungry eyes, I pray: God has gifted thee with divine beauty! The god of love shall stroke thy hair when gray, Thy lusty youth shall e’er remain with me, In these words, in these lines, in this poem, Thy name—thy life—shall remain wet with love; Gents within a dream shall be woke again, A name—a life—that the dumb shall speak of. And e’en when thy silence becomes prolong, In death, to thee, world beauty shall belong.

- Arthur

[wordsofarthur]

I have loved him from life to death and immortality.

[wordsofarthur]

Sonnet 6

When bodied in death’s ephemeral twin, ‘Tis most I am faced by thy fair visage, And on thy skin holds my internal sin, Whereas my sense becomes thy royal stage. And thy lament becomes the velvet air Wherein, by my ears, are dearly lauded. Aye, thy virginal smile is none but rare And gentle and grand as a royal bed Thus, woe art thou, thy buoyant breath induced The world’s heart has girded and robbed you blind Of the very thing thou used to seduce The pious of souls, the best thou could find But untouched I remain for when I sleep Thy visage, my conscious, shall ever seek.

[wordsofarthur]

Sonnet 4

There is a kind of guilt on my hands, One that sleeps and feasts ‘pon one’s sanity— For I love a man who is more than man, And hold beauty that is more than skin deep. And, this man, he is nothing short of art— For his caramel lives upon my palm A body—light as night—a unique heart Would make the cru’l eye of a madman calm. Alas! My heaven has become my hell And av’r me not fluent in our love In wariness of woe that would compel Me to halt the dole by seraphs above. And though the fiends of earth (and hell) deter, I shall only paint thee as my lover.

[wordsofarthur]

Sonnet 1

My dearest, dearest heart, art thou alive? In thee, I have planted my beating seed, And there, I nurtured my fleeting life, By which is ever thine to have and keep. Is my name not carved into thy own tongue, And thine into my meek and open throat? Does not the sun shine gayly, pure and young? Our existence, together, we wrote. Bid me! My world has stolen my air! How do I breathe if I thou do not free? Was not thy first thought when thou skimmed my corse, Art! Thou did kiss sweet life upon my lips! Ergo, I ask with a soul strong and live, My dearest, dearest heart, art thou alive?

- Arthur