My brand new, rather inspired,

Sonnet XXXVII

I mourn of myself, perfect Eucharist
Who is Incarnate Prince of cinder ash
(Which is the sum of man). I bore the sash
Of green leather, loosed from a woman's wrist
As her white hand, contorted like the crest
Upon my shield unconcealed eagle's wings;
They glistered louder than the seraph sings
And I felt blessed by Heaven's footstool's best.
A jar of toxin to my conscience slipped,
Come from her myriad of spine-tipped slights
Which of her breastpocket were pagan blights
Pain-spurring lights in which her figure dipped.
Prince and Grand Captain, revenge not my spites,
Suspend my gaze at falsely conferred rights.


[This image, by Bob Corbett, is entitled "Penance", and reflects the way I think about divine things- in such a watery, Newtonian realm as described in The Water Machine. It is also a fine image of the female form, which I so adore.]

This makes me happy; I have not written a poem about speaking to God in a bit. And it is filled with Easter eggs. The astute reader may notice the reference to the green belt and pentagram shield from the anonymous Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, which we read in English last year, and I very much adored (along with Rime of the Ancient Mariner).
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In A/V, I have lately argued so much with my atheistic, honestly ignorant peers on religion that in order to fill up the classe's project schedule, two atheists have teamed up against a Catholic girl and I in a recorded, roundtable debate., of which some occured earlier today (we did well, although I am about 100 times as advanced in apologetics as my cradle Catholic comrade). The rest will likely be filmed tomorrow. For the truth of the only true Church and the love of our Savior for every heathen and heretic soul, pray for our victory, if you will.