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?




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