Shakespearean Sonnet
Upon the loam where ancient shadows creep,
a severed vein now yields its vital breath,
and writhes upon the floor in torments deep,
consumed within the iron jaws of death.
No gentle breeze attends its rapid fall,
nor sunlit grace to soothe the tearing pain;
It strikes the rotting moss and scarlet wall,
drenched in the fury of a weeping drain.
Yet watch the fiber twitch, the pulsing spine,
as blind-eyed beetles strip the tender skin,
and carve away the green with teeth malign,
to feast upon the fever locked within.
The forest laughs while slowly torn apart,
and grinds the winter's refuse in its heart.
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