Sonnet V

I bleed, but not the crimson hue of blood,

though scarlet are my wounds as they are read;

each painful cut I make lets loose a flood

of words aflame too quickly from lips sped.

And through the pen that draws my breath from me

on currents bold my soul is thus laid bare,

and flows the spirit that I must set free

‘midst loving thoughts issued with hopeful pray’r.

I’m weary and have lost myself to this,

and fear my own immortal soul unsaved,

but for a heart receiving simple gifts

an end I might know to the poet’s pain.

And in my scars my soul’s revealed –

but for my pen, my heart would e’er be sealed.