Sonnet 453

Now she is gone and I sit here alone,
Perhaps it’s but one anguish less to ponder;
No abject fervor searing to the bone,
That battle of the wills shall try no longer.
I am not saddened; no not sad at all—
This feeling much akin to truce in war;
In truth a muted joy that none shall fall,
Relief now won, but yet no evened score.
Still quiet peace is never to be shunned,
Mute solace is a refuge spirits seek
Where wounded souls stark feelings yet unplumbed
Can so be measured, be they bright or bleak;
And so in silence I now sit and muse,
Detente in love seems but a loss we choose.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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