Wherefore This?

These words are all the beauty I comprise.

These mumbles heard by no one spell my name.

Set them in glass to mirror your surprise

when fourteen lines exceed the picture frame.

If you would see my face, behold it here.

Look on its scars before you see it smile.

I mean no harm, no damage to your ear.

My trek is long, before we tread a mile.

If this is not the reason, turn away!

Ask, “Wherefore this?” or stuff it, Juliet.

“A pox on both your houses!” How passé!

This metered heart is beating sonnets, yet!

My organ throbs a vulgar, bloody flow.

Give penance to your God, and claim you know.