Sonnet 133

This love is an affliction without end,
Replete with fevers hotter than a fire;
Hallucinations through my mind do wend
And with obsessive thoughts of you, conspire.
Your countenance does haunt me day or night;
Your lithe form, pure vexation in my dreams;
Your smile, fair burning with angelic light;
Seraphlike touches, colder than moonbeams.
Selena dearest, when will you be mine?
When will I ever hold you in my arms?
Will all my prayers be answered in due time
And will I bask contented in your charms?
Sweet madness does my heart and soul immure;
For you, my dread disease, and yet my cure.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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