Sonnet 125

I was always thrilled for her sweet letters,
And when I found a scrap I would write back;
I’d lie and say that things were getting better,
That victory was on the nearer track.
In all I wrote I said I’d ever love her;
She would write back and say that she loved me;
Before too long that we would be together,
And raise that perfect oft dreamed family;
But love and war just seem so never ending,
And dreams are oft but mist in burning sun;
One day the letters that she had been sending
Stopped; but for one that said that we were done.
I read the note and pondered while I sat,
That men might ever die for love like that.

 

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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