Sunday, May 14, 2017

A Petrarchan Sonnet

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Truly do I feel the seaward breezes.
In faith, in part, I might forget to breathe.
And under urchins I might choose to seethe, 
For lapsing waves have plagued me with freezes.
Wintry lips have met Poseidon's teases
With angry Tempest's gnash of salty teeth;
Who dragged the praying God from underneath
To do with him whatever she pleases.
And languidly I wait for tides of blue
And pink of sunset sickness in the sea 
To melt away the words I long since spoke.
In foaming reveries I dream of you,
As memories churn foggy with debris,
You are the final swallow of the choke.

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