Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
One Hundred and Fifty-Five Sonnets - 37. the sound of me
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Sonnet No. 73
Ringing hollow in the deep chest of Love,
My voice should not seem a consumptive thing,
To prove weakness by example thereof,
That my life's breath just hangs on by a string.
But, although the sound of me appears weak,
The bubbling spring from which my words must flow,
Is a torrent of passion, and not meek,
Though it races in me from far below.
If it rings false in your ear, then I fail;
If it moves not your heart, then I die –
For your breath of forgiveness cures my ail
By giving worth to my every sigh.
What more to say, than it is forgiveness
That needs resound by being bottomless.
Sonnet No. 74
Shards of protection like sparklers to scare
Some destructive deer or birds from the field
Have the opposite intent than to ensnare,
And so you forgive, but I don’t feel healed.
It's not for us that time will be lacking,
For a love this great was not simply born
Through the machinations of one living,
And can survive a brief lifetime of scorn.
But in your heart, I know you love me more,
Though in chrysalis you may have bed it,
It aches to stretch its wings in new ardor,
And fly its full now, if you will permit.
Love is a butterfly that must be free;
Reborn, it outlives all catastrophe.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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