untitled sonnet

In silvered silence your skin softly sleeps,
which my careful plan I dare say was cause.
Such gossamer hair through which white light seeps,
yet so seeps crimson from under your blouse.
Half-parted lips seem still confessing sins, yet
no more gentle rasps of sweet breath through sweet lips.
A winter-spared brow tells not of regret
but of bludgeoning beauty time softly kissed.
More permanent night does your breast embrace.
Your countenance locked in a sweet headlight-stare.
A pity your heart could not remain chaste,
now it sleeps skewered in your bosom's lair.
With this I give thee to sleep's spartan kin.
Apud Eum redemptio, amen.