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Metamorphosis I know I said the last time I bled no more tears would be allowed, yet for the life of me exposed I stand in tattered rags of Cinderella shroud, dismounting vermin and pumpkin seed my heart is worn upon my sleeve. Hemmed inside this tender sleeve flooded by the blood its bled blooms of hope have gone to seed, yet this suffocation I allowed when lewd sensations I used to shroud oppressed the basis of my gracious stand. Falling to knees in a pious stand, the end is cuffed of my right hand sleeve so I can spread upon my porous shroud the very sustenance my heart once bled, therefore, by choice I have allowed the planting of redemption’s seed. Amid decrees of yielded seed with judgment past I rise and stand to publicize the needled prick allowed that imbued below my silken sleeve a tattooed heart that’s never bled, which personifies the mastery of elation’s shroud. Neither sun nor moon will I shroud, rather like a budding seed I will feed upon its essence bled and from roots unknown in the gardener’s stand the devil’s tongue may slither from my sleeve for I have heard in love and war the aforementioned is allowed. Come day or night, indolence is not allowed and inasmuch I tautly pulled my vessel’s shroud while it was flagged to full by muscled sleeve strength was gained from wisdom’s seed and the ocean’s mist that breezed my feeble stand cured at last by its salt my wounded heart that bled. Trapped inside love’s cocoon I bled to death in my own shroud, but even still time allowed for transformation’s seed to stand alone, yet fly anew, and land upon another’s sleeve. |
Additional Notes:
Whew! This is my very first sestina of which I worked and worked and worked upon very very very hard!
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