02-20-2013, 10:33 PM
Sonnet I
Our love, it seems to me, is as a book:
By most who just see covers thrown away
Amid the trinkets tossed without a look,
And only with the surest holds its sway.
Your face, it seems to me, is as a stone:
Worn away by time and hurt and wanton
Hate the others try to paste onto your bones,
But craggy lines refuse to hide the you within.
I wish I could tell you my love, my dear
What your voice, your sound, your crooked sight mean
To me, but I cannot, and ne’er will, I fear.
When the game is called, play’rs taken from the scene,
The thing I fear most in so wide the world
Is after losing you, they broke the mould.
Our love, it seems to me, is as a book:
By most who just see covers thrown away
Amid the trinkets tossed without a look,
And only with the surest holds its sway.
Your face, it seems to me, is as a stone:
Worn away by time and hurt and wanton
Hate the others try to paste onto your bones,
But craggy lines refuse to hide the you within.
I wish I could tell you my love, my dear
What your voice, your sound, your crooked sight mean
To me, but I cannot, and ne’er will, I fear.
When the game is called, play’rs taken from the scene,
The thing I fear most in so wide the world
Is after losing you, they broke the mould.