Up am I tripping and in love falling
With thy angelic frustration. Of course,
Thou dost know that, though thine hair is sprawling
Around thine shoulders, I do it by force—
Which easily categorizes thee.
Gladly upon myself do I impose
The vain desire to suffer your love’s throes;
I’m no idiot to wish to be free.
After all, it is the proper manner
To fall for love, as autumn is the best,
And winter pains loving with death’s behest.
One canst not purchase beads from a tanner.
I’m wont for casual, chilled affection
After summer’s heated misdirections.
Sonnet
Ashore
Albeit, I know you could never sin,
Since perfection comes without from within.
It touches ev’ry aspect of your form—
The round eyes your golden face does adorn,
Thy blemishless skin ‘neath which you take dorm,
Your ears, and how your hair is shorn.
To gaze upon your form does me distress;
Even reverent glances must transgress.
What a radiant goddess graces earth!
How you have mortal men much affrighted!
We scurry lest defects should be sighted,
Which’d afterwards make us e’er curse birth.
Prithee, what is it like within your core,
Since countenance’s where weak wash ashore?
To You
Sit I melancholy here all alone
In a depressed, apathetic mind zone.
Sadly, I have nothing better to do
Than to be insignificant to you.
When I think of earth’s each twisted wonder
That cannot help but easily depress,
Think I of ye with such unmatched success
To convince me it is only blunder.
Neither insp’ration nor jubilation
Art thou, but perhaps an condemnation
To those emotions of mine well-beloved.
Nevertheless, will I have anon shoved
Your resemblance into verbosity
Or some other tripe that purges glee.
Midnight Musings from Melancholy Muses 