Since I write a lot of sonnets, here is a Shakespearean sonnet about a Shakespearean (and other) sonnet(s).

The Petrarchan or Italian sonnet,

In two sections, with the octave to start.

Followed by the sestet, if you’re on it,

Complicated structure sets it apart.

The English type made famous by Shakespeare,

Strict parameters and syllables ten.

A magnificent style that I hold dear,

Iambic pentameter o’er again.

Third, there is the Spenserian stanza,

Complexity in overlapping rhyme.

When mastered a fulfilling bonanza,

Evoking a satisfaction sublime.

Myriad poetic formats to try,

But I’ll love the sonnet until I die.

Nipples flattened like pressed doorbells. Tucked into their auréolas, snuggled tightly against the stiff padding of a bra.

Locked in place by metal wiring, they are devoid of fresh air. Skin moistens and sours. In darkness they remain, until they hear a familiar snap and are freed for the night.

They understand they must endure. So that they do not droop. So that men won't see them as they stand erect, and take their perky presence as an indicator of arousal.

And so they must give up what they enjoy. Being caressed by the fabric of a soft shirt. Feeling strong after being kissed by a gust of wind. Their essence.

True love however fleeting

Can stop your heart a beating

Often delivered on perfumed paper written as a prose

Or hinted at with a simple single stemmed thorny red rose

It can be tender like a bird singing in your ear

Gentle like cupids arrow or as a deadly spear

Whichever may befall you?

There is nothing you can do

You cannot turn or ignore

The cunning sirens call anymore

It beguiles and bewilders it lingers on your mind

Leaving you speechless and so often blind

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the dead strewn with flowers, hands clasped in something like defense 

the forensic team has photographed and unwrapped it, careful plucking of silk from skin and padded bones, dusky arms untucked like wings. life in the milky residue. 

    “You have thirty three vertebrae divided into five regions.” The touching stops at the base of your spine, fingers gently pressing on either side. “Our killer took the sacrum, from the Latin os sacrum – holy or sacred bone.”

The sacrum was the part of the animal offered in sacrifice. The Greek’s believed the bone was indestructible. It was thought to be the seat of the human soul.

then again, we've also thought that of livers and hearts. in any case, what we are really after is the frost 

the garden of the dead (pretty soil) 

empathetic undoing of what is sweet and holy, somehow made useful? somehow translated into an uprooting of sympathy? young animal love poised in the trees and radiating sunlight 

You,

The Man of Men,

Who taught men of man

Before they were aware of it.

Your study is an art,

And your art is your study.

People praise you for reasons they do not even know,

And you provoke a sincere melancholy that changes the heart.

We laugh and cry and love and hate,

As you do.

You,

Who has written for the ages,

And lives through them.

Before thee we knew not yet how to speak.

For in thee came the words that we now know.

This patronage appears now far too weak,

With words not fitting of thy mighty show.

The imprint thou hast made upon our time,

Is felt by those who know not who thou art.

Yet for a few thy words are still sublime,

With passion flowing deeply through the heart.

Thou spoke and taught of love and its embrace,

And also of the bitterness of loss.

So now eternally thou hast a place,

And shown the modern language who is boss.

So we salute the brilliance of thy hand,

And awe at ages that thy words hast spanned.

Sorrow born of love was muse and mistress

While flesh and blood and tear were ink of choice;

Both nourished mirror trees to stand as witness

And give a ghostly life eternal voice.

Truth composed of dreams and wishful thinking

Tempered by the holy light of day 

Served as illness, tonic, and an inkling

That yearning one day soon would be allayed.  

Haunted by a future nonexistent,

He filled the interlude with actors glad;

As if through heart and hope persistent,

A mortal chain would link the two comrades.

Immortality proved an ample lodge;

A worthy home after such deep mileage. 

Although the world widely recognizes that William Shakespeare had written thirty-eight plays in his life, the truth is, he had actually written thirty-nine. The reason why we didn't know it was his was because he had sequestered his manuscript away in a secret compartment beneath the floorboards of his Stratford home, hidden for centuries until it was rediscovered, renamed, and adapted into Star Wars: Episode IV.

For when the wretched taketh of the light,

Betwixt the shadow of the dawn and eve,

Purgatory's minions ascend of night,

Bequeathing turgid vengeance, take their leave;

Thy will shall be as nothing before them,

Dost thou knowest thou art damned by thy deeds?

Blackest flower in plagued death does stem,

Care not but for their own treacherous needs.

Thou runneth to thy secret cold alcoves,

As the dark ones follow, supping the dark,

The vulture dines of sweet innocent doves,

Devours the sweet songs of the morning lark;

Thou can'st kneel and say thy prayers this day,

Servants of the Beast shall take thee away.