Poetic License

My feelings, scarlet, aching, tearing, raw

Beneath my skin, do not set down across

The page to meter, beat and rhyme; the loss

Of my communion is too bitter, more

Oft suited to blank verse; the onward beat

Of rage and terror heightens powers won

From anguish, yet in clutching fingers none

Of joy's abandon can be saved. Defeat,

Humiliation, passion lurking still,

Hot rage, an empty hollow nought can fill,

Despair, for such throat-aching joining will

Forever be my measure of delight;

So briefly tasted, Heaven, mine by right;

No rhyme can speak the loss I mourn tonight.

.

(c) Jenny Ford 2006

This was another creative challenge - to make a perfectly formed sonnet which, when read aloud, doesn't sound like a sonnet at all.

And yes, it's another break-up poem!