04 October 2015


By Bud Koenemund

For T.

I stand guilty; entrapped in self-made plight.
Abandoned by fate, sans defense, I fear,
‘Gainst offenses for which I am indict:
Those of madman, lover, and sonneteer.
I did not think this fervor illicit –
Seeking favor by show of affection.
But, it seems my passion’s too explicit;
And heart’s at fault for miscalculation.
The crime? Infatuation. Foul sin? Lust.
Although I swear my intention was pure,
This imperfect world oft’ inhibits trust,
So your pen wrought the prison I endure.
   Though I’ll not carry this shame forever,
   I must lament the amity severed.

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