Sonnet XII: A Mouth

A mouth that’s full of blisters, open sores
A tongue running over, over again
The lips, the teeth that dwindle fruits to cores
Won’t heal or knit together fleshy glen
A mouth that’s full of friction, damp unrest
A tongue that twists to please imagined whims
The lips, the teeth that grind against behest
Won’t rest unless soothed by external limbs
A mouth at war with itself, torn to gum
A tongue left limp, yet tucked away so neat
The lips, the teeth that rot to gnaw a crumb
Will always work the jaw but never eat
Still a mouth’s empty pain is preferable
When a mind licks its wounds, it grows too full