A Sonnet

Within my love a mystery there lies
Not friend or foe, but mystery remains.
It has no purpose, but to tantalize
And throw off all my earthly mortal claims.

For claims as this, like man, shall surely die
And take within the ground silent repose
Beneath a softly weeping summer sky
These tender breasts do nurse a flowering rose.

Our vibrant hearts do tend to quicken pace
As life does ebb and flow with passing time.
For when we’ve gone, does there remain a trace
Of who I was or what I claimed was mine?

At time as such reverberations cease,
And only there shall I find lasting peace.


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