Tuesday, July 17, 2012

sonnet two hundred one

rushing to filter the light
pouring from your eyes,
i find an inescapable gorge
where your beauty dwells,

raw and pure and
tangible as any glorious truth
could get, i imagine holding
in my hands all the webs and

fiber that make you
astoundingly and astonishingly
who you are - after all

these days, after all that
has come and gone, after
what we have forged.

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