Sonnet 28

Ah sweet flower, why do you bring this pain
Midst gentle fragrance and a softer touch?
What twisted pleasure does such feat attain
To see me suffer sweetly and so much?
This tortured triumph by a lover’s hand
Is anguish far beyond the tyrant’s reach,
And love directed with such false command
Does soon in time its’ fairest promise breach.
Thus you in incongruous love do take
The better portion of my fondest dreams,
And in soft hands no kinder heart may break
Midst sad untruths which does fond love demean.
Yet if you must weigh blame, state this my fault:
Say that his blood was red; his tears were salt.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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