my mind is a whirlwind,
scattering thoughts to places of doubt.
where can I go to ease this restless storm?
shall I look within, or to another mind beyond?
my answer lies in both a heart and his song
calling to me a melody
of sonnet sweet and pure and young
my heart is a tempest
and ocean’s wrath adjourned
eased by only the promise that
he will someday return.
but what shall I do, before my long afflicted wait?
where shall my heart lie,
guarded or by a gate?
sheltered no doubt, but by who and when’ver?
the question that is sung thrice, then over and over.
“Choose me,” I might, to the handsomest pauper
whose heart shined gold through the eyes of his lovers
“Choose me not,” I’d cry, my heart’s desire bare
for who can tame this tempest
without so much as a glare?