Intro 8: Thy Bed

Would, I might have been
Your bed on so dark a night;
Dark that you would sleep.

Rest now weary child.
In my keep, upon my breast
Rest your frightened head.

Calm indeed, you’ll sleep,
No want or need forgotten
You’ll weep, as I said,

And your soul will heal.
Drink you, deep, of comfort, child
And again be whole

Instead, not broken.
When you wake and smile at me,
Look into my eyes,

Sister, I would see
You’d gaze up and smile at me
A smile I’d prize

Above all pleasure
In this, would grace and measure
Ever fill your cup.

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Sonnet VII: Perfection

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.

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

Sonnet VI: Misdeeds

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:

Sonnet V: The Moment

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: