Sonnet - Flay

Poetry is oft self-flagellation,

Splitting flash and baring open soul,

And at once, the warrior’s proclamation,

A purge of toxic things, to spare the whole.

The poet is a primal, cunning thing, 

A savage, near-reptilian kind of beast,

Words her jagged teeth, and claws that sting,

Of purest, raw emotion she makes feast. 

Yet words can also be a curing balm,

Soothing, oft carousing to the heart;

Sensual, patient, exquisitely calm,

Most guarded inhibitions coaxed apart.

She, the poet: all these things and more, 

Flaying herself open to her core. 

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- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.