Doubt Not Thy Face Will Feel the Sun Again

For TK

Doubt not thy face will feel the sun again,
And bask in the warmth of love's majesty.
Like a flower reaching up toward Heaven's
Light, you'll grow strong despite this malady.
The fragments of your heart, too oft' broken,
Shall heal once more by the physic of time;
A spring will soften what is now frozen,
To seek anew that emotion sublime.
Though my well-meant words cannot ease thy pain,
Nor dispel the gloom found in the abyss
Of memory, know this darkness shall wane,
For melancholy can brighten to bliss.
   I pray divine power will grant thee rest,
   As peace floods the sacristy of thy breast.

Deadly Sin

Am I not a mortal, born into sin;
An imperfect man, destined to transgress?
Shall I stand condemned for the beast within;
Tendering prayers entreating forgiveness?
No! I'll abandon virtue for thy kiss,
The warmth of your skin on my fingertips,
And whispers shrouded in the Dragon's mist –
Where carnal urges rise and reason slips.
Each time I see you, I long to confess
This fault; to admit the concupiscence
Burning through my body. Though, what blessing
Would that bring, when lust o'erwhelms innocence?
   Your touch alone can sate this desire,
   And damn my soul to the eternal fire.

Love and Hate

For "Her."

I didn't know – in truth, how could I have? –
That you'd always hate me for loving you;
Damning me for the devotion I gave
In words that fade now in my solitude.
I offered everything to feed the fire
Of passion you kindled, then crushed to ash;
Desperate not to let it expire,
Like dying embers swept into the trash.
A day will come when I love you no more;
When I stop hiding from a harsh truth veiled
By the shadows in my mind, and restore
Sanity, accepting my prayers have failed.
"I love you" seems the strongest thing I say:
It always pushes you farther away…

Teach My Fingers Words to Win Your Heart

For "Her."

How many sonnets must I pen before
You'll love me back? What number would you hold
As proof of devotion? Muse, I implore,
Grant me a gift valued higher than gold.
O, teach my fingers words to win your heart,
And I will abandon caution to make
The blood in my veins the ink for that art.
Give me your hand – let sweet affection wake
In thy eye and grow stronger in thy breast.
Demand your tribute, goddess, and despite
A poet's wit, I'll strive with every breath
To venerate you with the vows I write.
Lady, I beg thee, consent to be mine,
As I, by Heaven, am forever thine.

Angel

Inspired by a work in progress by Mandee Alyson Clifton

O, how inconceivable is the soul
Knitted within my womb like fragile lace?
A blessing words cannot wholly extol;
An angel: sure proof of eternal grace.
My heart, once desolate, is now o'erfull
With love. I give my life to you – as yours
Was granted me – my belov'd jewel,
And pledge to ever protect and adore.
But, language falls short of the perfection
Thou art – forever failing thy beauty
In my eyes – and lacks honest expression
Of the long, bless'd life I wish for thee.
To be worthy of this gift, I will strive,
As my mother's prayers up to Heaven rise.

The Heart as Icarus

For Amy Lynn Watkins

The heart as Icarus soars toward the sun
Of our desires. But, blind to hazard,
Love so often tumbles from light to dun;
Leaving all – mind, body, and soul – battered.
Dicing 'gainst the Gods, we strive to escape
This fate; yearning for flight beyond our dreams.
Sadly, we find that we are poor in shape –
Requiring wings in such airy streams.
Words stand impotent – overwhelmed by clouds
Of loss – never healing our wounded pride.
Yet, even through the darkness of this shroud
Strong hearts will rise to seek a love enskied.
Though now it seems tears cannot be restrained,
'Tis certain, time will melt away our pain.

Doubts and Wishes

For "Her."

Oh, Cupid; why must you make me captive
To those hot twins of passion: love and hate?
Shall my heart burn e'en as my mind misgives?
Will my wit to madness be subjugate?
Archer, aim thy arrows some other way,
Lest I be shipwrecked on rocks of regret;
Left alone to drown beneath waves of pain.
Thou seest I dread thy infection, yet,
If music be the food of love, I pray
Thee, direct a symphony for the ears.
Bestow thy gift on my heart that it may
Kindle a new flame to wither all fear.
Grant thou a hand to hold, and lips to kiss;
A soul with whom to share eternal bliss.