Sonnet - Epiphany 2; Throb

Often, from the night I'm suddenly

Yanked awake by things that hiss and writhe,

Urges slither up ravenously, 

Demanding fealty; I must pay the tithe.

Within me dwells a savage, monstrous brute;

Embodiment of hungry, furious lust;

Had I not my quill to pay tribute,

Within its inferno I'd combust.

I am a slave to it, this endless Throb, 

Don't you see? The words give lust a voice. 

Bound to write its urges, that's my job,

And ceasing to obey is ne'er a choice.

So when it calls, I must heed its growl,

Lest I be haunted by its bestial howl.

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- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.