| Poetic License |
| "There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you". Maya Angelou spoke these words, and I think everyone has felt the same at one point or another. People write because they need to, because a story they have heard or a topic being discussed has called to them and they need to write their own version of it. Sometimes you'll see an image or hear a sound that brings a thought to mind, and you'll think nothing is more important at that time than putting that thought into a series of harmonious words. Whenever I feel like that, I too have to stop whatever it is I'm doing to write down a few lines, or whatever comes into my head |
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| Sonnet I |
| When thinking back to what you've said to me And all the words that you have yet to say, Confusion makes the truth so hard to see That I can't reach it, though I wish I may A look, a touch, a fleeting promise of The love that you might feel, that you might give, Is followed close by something cold enough To make me wonder how I should still live. Why do you say that you will now allow Yourself to go forth with me more each day? You sound as if you like us here and now. For every step, we move two back again. Should you decide that you want us apart, Tell me fast so I can balm my broken heart. |
| Sonnet II: Says Ophelia |
| I see the willows hanging down, boughs low And green and swaying soundless in the wind. They weep the way I weep for you, although I doubt that they have ever been so spurned. The beauty of the flowers blue and red Is awful insult to my heavy pain. So oft have you played games within my head That I should wonder if I still am sane. The weeping willows cast their shadows down. A heart-deep anguish very soon became Unbearable. If I could only drown My sorrows, or somehome make them tame. Bright water swiftly flowing, clean and cold Relieve me of the aching griefs I hold. |
| Sonnet III: Saddest of the Stories Told |
| The most consuming love these three once were; Each loved one true but as much loved another. King Arthur and his Guinivere so fair, And bright lad Lancelot always the other. Not usual love but triad they did make, From need so strong it gave up something truer; Need for the child. Not only for his sake As each loved both, as deeply and as sure. Art's seed not grown, the lady Viviane Sent Morgaine Fae to bear the child sought. The lovers learning truth of shar-ed kin, Guilt-ridden Arthur killed in Camelot. Thus ends the doomed-love tale told all the years For sake of children lost, and bitterest tears. |
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