My first real attempt at poetry, while consciously knowing that it is poetry. According to a writing friend, it’s a sonnet.

—

Will you not shed the skin of light,
When death whispers the time at night.
Warmth is the truest skin of ice,
Like evil under face of nice.

But how much you desire not,
In the troubled void in your thoughts,
The image roomed not in chaos,
But in the many fields of naught.

Boundaries drawn with sightless threads,
By one’s darkness-filled mind and hand,
Gentle as fresh rubies fall low,
Swift and cold shall the sharp wind blow.

So now round ebony glows bright,
Like the stars of a thousand night,
If no longer in bonds you tie,
Then I shall say ‘fly, my friend, fly’.