Sonnet XII

So dear she is to me, that all to fire,
I could cast and not whine, nor water sight.
Such confusion she cast on me, that ire,
Thus leads me to speak, and words become trite

It all began a-strange, unnatural,
Not the path that lead to-end, that lead somewhere.
and turmoil festered, goal collateral
as ire. Now doomed I’m t’ solitaire.

And with plentiful gall in mine own throat,
Big enough spur becomes me, and I speak.
And now my foolishness, which giant, to tote
And in silence, I writhe and become meek.

So the road goes ever on, and so d’ I.
Just left to pray, I, we stop being awry

 

Konichi wa;
Very good, I really enjoy your sonnet, I usually write them in spanish, perhaps someday I will write one in english.
Congratulations Inishi.
Alaric.