Post 28

A brief attempt at poetry--to break up the monotony of my longwindedness.
Here're a couple of sonnets I wrote:


As I walked through a field of gray one day,
I saw a red, red rose I thought I'd keep;
I plucked it up, continued on my way,
And kept it in my house for all to see.
I'd never really had a rose before
And didn't know how I should care for one,
And so it only faded more and more
Until its simple beauty was all gone.
The petals fell and left me just a stick
(An ugly twig repulsive to my sight),
And, when its little thorns gave me a prick,
I threw it out the door with all my might.
So let me get down to the bottom line:
The pretty little rose was never mine.


I cannot hold your beauty in my hand,
And so to hold your hand must then suffice,
But I would be a slave to any man
If I could hold the light that's in your eyes.
But these are things evasive, not my own
To hold or tote around while on the go;
They must belong to you, and you alone
Must choose on whom thou wilt thy love bestow.
And though you may well choose another man
To whom you'll give you love through stronger ties,
I am for now content to hold your hand
And look a bit into your lov'ly eyes.
So let me get down to the bottom line:
Your love and grace are yours, not really mine.