Tuesday, November 4, 2008

a sonnet (in iambic)

When we kissed, I missed the weight of your lips
and thought not of the breath you held for me.
You’re fluent in the language between my hips,
but I don’t want that kind of ecstasy.
In pursuit of pleasure, you earned not mine –
without trust that inspires through love alone.
Old bed habits die (a trite form of crime),
when you have a life, wife and kids at home.
Our days are gone, and past passion has passed;
yet, you regress to mend your chosen fate:
to give back my tears, “right the wrong” at last,
address a coward’s life’s worth of mistake –
and proclaim me once more, the one you seek!
For though my mind is hard – my heart is weak.

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