The Crooked Sun: A Sonnet
By James Bellamy

The crooked sun spills vulvic light on stone,

Its heat a gash across the meadow’s face.

No child shall taste its fire, nor stand alone,

Where gorgon griefs uncoil in lunar grace.

The feline moon, seared by the sense of loss,

Bleeds silver through the dialling veins of night.

Life, christed red, becomes a sacred cross,

And blood telephones ruin into light.

The coast of thought is carded, baited, torn,

Stars dig green ruin from the sky’s abyss.

Man strips his soul, and earth is left forlorn,

Rotting in codes no god would dare to kiss.

The winter fists of babies drag surprise,

From amnion’s eye, where silence never dies.

James Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. James has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. James adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.