And the sonnets which I killed yesternight,
(Trust me, there were so many of them)
Seeped inside the grave I dug for my heart,
Slowly and slowly they filled it up
Manipulating my rhymes to fold them up.
The skulls still had grin of satan,
But the sunflowers on which they stamped
promised me a beautiful graden
adjacent to the tombstone reeked
of the corpse of your memories.