Metaphysical sonnets

By now the doors to the heart are closed, restrained by fats and wild muscle fibers sewn like ropes into a braid of hibernating colors, always almost torn apart by the spiraled curvature of its weft. Shut quiet like an accordion cabled together against the work of gravity, masterfully the hinges warp, the threshold seams are fused, handles dismantled and hid, the keys are buried deep within the…