An Old Sonnet

Here’s an old sonnet I wrote for somebody. Though I don’t like what it reveals about my previous character, I do admit I like the language.

I met a green-eyed Irish girl this year
with hair changing shape each phase of the moon,
from black to burgundy, from blades to bangs.
Each style all new (unlike the shoes she wears).

She paints herself with Sharpies and captures
the world in flashes. She sleeps in a room
with half-painted tigers and dirty towels
that make comfy beds for baby brothers.

Around black widows and recluses, though
never dripping venom herself, she has
a heart that melts the ice polluting life,
a heart that gives golden luster to the world.

She’s touched me with her heart tempered in gold.
My best of friends, her smile brightens my soul.

Critique

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