Sonnet II

What gold what red what tender sweet and soft;

My mind cannot erase the glowing coals

That long did give me heat and burned me oft’,

A subtle linger, trembling lips, of souls.

Caress me not o fleeting tremors gone,

Bid me not taste the memoirs hanging low

A fruit of ripeness plump not to be won

A whisper of sweet nothings left in tow.

Away from me, assay me not, in time

Your touch like daggers pierce my fallen heart

And rend my mind and soul to upward climb

From falling out of breath and torn apart.

The thoughts of what has been now plague my wake,

In want of more of those that we did make.

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