Sonnet - To Punk

Punk is not dead. It was never alive. We stitched it together from mangled parts with contents we poured from inconstant hearts in our basements during bleak nights. Finding in art the best ways to survive a world beyond our vague comprehension. Some wounds will never taste restoration, some demons may never be exorcised. We crafted this monster with filthy surmise, with minds obsessing on rebellion. Eyes that deny beauty in convention, and hands craving vengeance and patricide. With all of our collective contentions, this lifeless cadaver is galvanized.