The Lost Sonnet

Thy love, from me, hath long departed,
Prime and puerile, though it seemeth now.
When I was young and callow-hearted,
And my foolish flame was oft avowed.
It was that first awaking ardour,
When my mind was full of simple dreams.
And to thy love, I fell, a martyr,
Seeking beauty ‘neath a shallow gleam.
It was thee, who grew me to a man,
From a childhood, yearning at thy name.
When I stood, with callow-heart in hand,
Now, wherein, thou ever shall remain.
Years have passed without thine hand in mine,
Still, my dreams and thee remain entwined.

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Untitled (Bad poem)

When I was much younger, then, barely a man,
I knew what I wanted, I had it all planned.
I clutched on to wishes, and so many dreams,
A life of bright silver, of gold enwrought seams.
My fame and my fortune, in all that I said,
Not love, but ambition, I chose in your stead.
When I was much younger, I hadn’t a clue.
Now I’ve forgotten,
Everything but you.

 

To Lana, with love.

 

In the gardens of my soul,

Where I walk in solace, night and day.

There are streams of ardent prose,

Cascading words I cannot say.

And as I press them to my lips,

These sentiments, arcane and bold.

I know why they are sealed away,

In the gardens of my soul.

 

Each unspoken whisper, veiled and true,

I have set in tears, inscribed, ‘to you’.