poems, prose and
other pretty words
© 2010-2014
Chel Mercado

                        Drawing constellations with our teeth
                    [Petrarchan sonnet in iambic pentameter]
You clutched your stomach, fell upon the ground
and burning stars escaped your silver-lined
two lips. They pulsed with freedom, unconfined
and swirled in numbers more than I could count.

Now HeavenHell is purged, the sky defiled,
emetic worship taking now its toll.
The constellations out of our control
in air still reeking from your shining bile.
        Am I the church or am I a steeple?
Regardless, now the congregation waits.
Our wills  do so  contrary  run  our fates;
This path, though wrong, led home the same.
I found myself  around the right people
and when I woke up I forgot your name.