Sunday Sonnet: Cook

Day 5 of national poetry month. I was not a fan of today's prompt from NaPoWriMo.net (or from Writer's Digest or anyplace else I looked) so I decided I would start a Sunday Sonnet tradition of my own, see if that sticks beyond poetry month. Here is what I came up with for the first one:

Cook.

I'm dripping my faith as this body decays.
Choices are demons dried in silicone and stone.
Answers paralyze, plastic gold has been sewn.
Into our bones and lung tissue as we all age.
Each bawling decade, each voracious life stage.
Brings wisdom's burnt lumber, with each crook and groan.
The questions, so human, dressed up for my tomb.
Desiccated days I damn with sloppy praise.

The Wisdom's in thinking while the dance distracts.
Words fail to intravenously supply truth.
Yet I'll scribble the same until my last breath.
The prosody needed for palatable facts.
Which we dare not spit into the mouths of youths.
Death is the answer and your body's the chef.