My Sonnet

In every old lover I recognise
My face, my grace courting and haunting still.
They pass quickly, improvising a guise
To hide their lustful sneer, jealous until
I'm through. They always end it though, knowing
They're born inferior to my myth.
I'm a walking God of constant crowing,
A miracle of elegance, the pith
Of creation. The world is my mirror.
I see my eyes in coins, these hands magnets,
My feet a Bible, walking me nearer
To you, carried on big thoughts and vague threats.

I almost forgot I must love myself
Before I can feel it in someone else.