I hesitate to say it, but my dark sonnets may have taken a turn for the better; here are two more that hold more hope than many:
I am returning to the human race.
I’ve rolled my bedroll up. I’ve raised my head,
No longer lying immobile on my face
To peer at bugs beneath the surface dread.
There’s not much I can tell you to explain
Depths of disintegration that I know--
The way dirt swirls in a drop of rain
How cobwebs mask the spider’s ordered row.
Chaos is always there and always was.
That I became it isn’t all my fault.
Many have succumbed to no because--
Because there was no victory to exalt.
The victory is this: to live in spite
Of all the reasons laving us n night.
I would kill you if I had the chance,
Bipolar brother, my accursed golem.
You are a black spider in my pants,
Your belly poisonous, fine-haired and swollen.
Your bite is easily fatal; many have died
Believing your sick gospel in their death.
In telling them the truth you only lied
About the cyclic nature of our breath.
Genetic, so they say, internal fate--
Van Gogh, Hart Crane and Plath, so many others.
But you won’t find my head upon your plate
Because I know the truth. To all my brothers
I caution patience. If we can outlast
The darkness, light will come, the die’s not cast.