The vanished point, where beauty and death both sleep
wrapped within the arms, music, and god-kept lies
that curtail the futile heart. There, by the keep,
tread the life lines of my palms and his loose eyes
will widen with the horror of strange distance;
at ear level you hear my tongue in a mouth
lined with spirals. Your love now is for the danse
macabre; I, at your back, shepherd you south.
See? He ignores the contract – cannot abstain.
Whisper now to the laughing vacuum between
molecules of all he’ll never know again.
Was it the light? The white geese in divine skein?
We knew he would turn; funeral ochre filled
the gaps with blaze, and your living heart twice stilled.

What is a sonnet?

It’s a juxtaposition of two ideas within a rhyming poetic construct of 14 lines, with equal syllables per line.

I’ve gone with…