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 - 38. a winter's tale
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Sonnet No. 75
Love to ourselves is a gift, that you've said;
We make gift of it to ourselves to choose,
To look at with stagnant, hopeless dread,
And thereby all the best options confuse.
In many ways I treasure your laptop,
It is a lifeline and a link between
Those impulses you have to simply stop,
And your desires to me that careen.
You say ours is too beautiful to live,
But you know it has already survived
All the cruel torment a cold world can give,
And through our joined suffering it has thrived.
You choose to love me every day, I know,
And what links us can sorrow overthrow.
Sonnet No. 76
Your skin is like molten alabaster,
Pygmalion pure; I've whispered in your ear,
And your animation soothes disaster
That stalked us with lupine menace and fear.
For our Winter's Tale will be one of heat,
Where mistakes are set aside by firelight,
And feet and shoulders are bundled complete,
In peace and warmth to see us through the night.
To touch your purity, and stroke your skin,
Heals all wounds we think we have inflicted –
For the cover we wear clears us of our sin,
And flesh-to-flesh, Love's blessing is predicted.
With hand on heart, from us dear life redeems;
Love warms our numbness, and no more stone seems.
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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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