Untitled Sonnet


Dreams soothed my tears with thoughts of you, oh love,

though pride held high my soul for little while.

Yet here lay I in shackles lest I move

to you who left me fretting and beguiled.


Ah! A fool is Eros who fools us all,

he blindly leads to death with good intent

and follow we his fleeting silv’ry gall;

but my queries seem never to relent.


And I, in jest, begin to test each heart,

to find new joys in smiles of an hour.

How frail and pitiful am I to dart

from hand to hand; love’s milk begins to sour.


Fatigued and weak with mem’ries of the past,

I shrivel, slope, subside behind a mask.






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