Tuesday, June 12, 2012

sonnet one hundred forty two

thoughtlessly, a word spills,
a scar never heals, the night
resolves to silence, the sunset
succumbs to its splendor

your face etched in the
sky, awaiting the rain
to drown what is left
of my heart and what

is left, just that -
the eloquence of your gaze
maims and breaks my

reserve, halts and impedes
our journey from
ever taking a different turn.

No comments:

Post a Comment