Sonnet 100

Did you dream me, or do I truly live,
For my thoughts dwell on nothing but your grace;
All else seems nought but early morning mist
Through which I see the shining of your face;
Yet what etheral vapors hold me here
And blind me to the sight of all but you?
What sweet nepenthe formed of heavens tears
Did I imbibe, all longings to subdue?
But if I am a figment of your mind,
A whimsy of capricious consciousness,
I pray we never waken here to find
My dream within your dream no longer is;
Still if I am a child of your brain,
I’ll wait in earnest ’til you sleep again.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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