Sonnet 11

by Lars Townsend

I fanned oxygen into the embers
letting every red ribbon spark arc downward
like stars falling in early November
that I tried to show you. But you never came.

I imagine your mannerisms 
As if you had been forged from iron; 
Waiting to add my lime and carbons
to alloy.  “But you're that guy, right?” you said.

And I dreamt that experience
hammered us together, forging a shape 
— of lust, insecurity and penance — 
nothing less than perfection. “But, listen creep…."

Why am I brittle, when I should be strong?
Is it just me, or is the world molded wrong?