Can aught unite this nature’s pain and grace?
Can any magic unify these twain?
I wish to see the ending of this pain
Which lives eternal on thine ivory face.

Shall magic oversee to interlace
These two divergent themes which so profane
This wonderful ideal of our demesne
To depths of most unbearable disgrace.

My sister, will it ever be that I
Will have thee someday for my very own?
Or is this fantasy to justify
This perfect world which we have overthrown.

What kind of fools were we who ran away
From that which still we hope to have someday?

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In moments, lived we our own genesis.
In dreams we wake into our own domain.
It is as though our burden to abstain
From one another no abstention is.

And though it may be years between each kiss,
Each kiss is thus more perfect porcelain,
Pristine in all its power to sustain
Me and propel me further into bliss.

It is as though mere seconds passed between
These honey-sweet perfections that we share.
For after each, my passion, love, and mien
Are stronger still and are more deep and rare.

If ever God had made a thing so fine;
It must be thee, this perfect love of mine.

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Now, here, I see the error of my ways;
For long I’ve contemplated–laying blame
On all events long past–my fear, my shame.
And still, mine own inaction now betrays

This dagger of deceit on which I gaze.
Though masking cowardice with pride, I came
To this unseemly state–my heart aflame
With thee–replete with thine own sickly praise.

But how was I to know: no fate was worse
Than live a tragic life bereft of thee?
How could there more malevolent a curse
Than rob us of our only destiny?

Did we do right by running then, or did
We simply kill the dream for which we hid?

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Beware; for an I hold the close again,
I shan’t be so inclined to let thee go.
The joy’s so great in finding thee; and so
This pain of parting doth not kindly wane.

When last I held thee, scarce could I contain
This joy in thee, and painful afterglow
Whose sting I could not, nor would I, forego;
Nor, fearing this, would I, my love restrain.

I die a thousand deaths when thou art gone.
Yet never would I sacrifice this time
When I am once again alive in thee.
I live a thousand lives, sweet paragon,
In every second’s sweet eternity,
In every moment’s perfect paradigm.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all: