Symphony calls, mere presence frees thy clutch
Sweet strokes of blues, replaced by grays; your eyes
Veils of forlorn lies run through your sad crutch
Thy lady has come. She will hear your cries
The atmosphere of hers weakens your heart
You think she will aid you here, do you not?
To think she will act like fine, luscious art?
No, never. She will leave you here to rot
Eternal rest awaits, as is for you
Tenderness lies above, for thou left clues
People sat to die, you're one of those few
These flesh, expunged of colors; his lost hues
These final moments; hers to make them sweet
For her stroke of grace is the last you'll meet
YOU ARE READING
"Sonnets"
PoetryThese are some sonnets that I wrote for a project, which are horrible by the way, and ended up being unused, so I'll publish them here for the sake of publishing them here. And no, I'm not gonna add more sonnets here and then because I, simply sayin...
