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.