Monday, April 2, 2012


12) To describe you is nothing short of woe!
For the scribes do play at games, in love, oh
They that put the pen to their lover's form
Do no justice to send  such bare words, torn
From the mind of men, touched with blackest ink;
For what kind of sonnet matches swift sights
That do blind. a bonnet could not brim light
As powerful as does appear here on
The shore! Yet she was mine enemy long
Ago, bore pains which time cannot mend; strong
Words are refrains, apologies that fail.
Unless they tame, appease memories gate,
And lessen sin's freezing hand with sorrow.
So do I wait; the woman I did rape
Covered in shadow by a sunlit cape.

                                                                    Past, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

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