New Sonnets

My words are weak without her knowing eyes
They feel too flat; they sound like schoolboys’ lies
The poetry I tried to write in death
In life was little more than shallow breath
I cry; so what? An infant cries as well
The only way to Heaven is through Hell
Cliché is like a simile of dust
With metaphoric winds my poems gust
Her eyes are closed, protecting her from me.
My words are nothing she would want to see.
I’ll write again, compose, with words to hear
With whispered words I’ll keep my pages clear
I’ll write in emanation of my voice
Such poems will be far beyond her choice.

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