LIT 110

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Sonnet: Clandestine I

When my sight unseen your sweet complexion

Time has stilled this grinding fire’s bitter burn

Yet silence only rounds another tiresome turn

My Heart heeds the Banshee’s depiction


Gnarled twists of her face lay waste my still hand

Aback the Flower heeds an infant’s frail curl

My Heart’s whimpers, drowned by cries, for that girl

Panicked gorge spurts blood upon the sand


Wrenching on the ground the hallow wind blows

Of future hope know I not where it goes



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