Sonnet XVIII: Song of the Foolish

Sundown, midst a montage of anxiety,

Echoes a litany of love, so trite

Brushing, some gray, some black, with propriety;

Solemn in spirit, in letter polite

Hurtling towards you without much ado,

With scraping dolour, and dashing your faith.

So, tears and tales and longings imbue,

Quietly beckoning a sardonic wraith

As it draws closer, it sieves through your mind

Laden with reason, which crumples a heap

Failing to reckon, to sorrow resigned,

Not all things profound are infact so deep.

So keep reading between those lines if you would

And pardon me, methinks I was misunderstood.

Sonnet XVII: Swan Song

There’s still room for me inside that closet

To sequester myself alongside you.

Those grey sills just need a bit of mopping

Then all shall be a vast expanse. White again.

I know I’d come back to an empty place,

For you never liked the cold, or that quiet,

But a fuzzier, effervescent dusk,

With a rainbow of my breath on your neck.

But I came back one last time to find you.

To tell you that though it’s tempting in here,

I, just like you, no more desire this realm.

It’s ironic that you should be waiting.

That you were once real is not lost on me,

But there’s still a real world, living, calling.