Sonnet 469

I cannot truly say when love ran dry,
When I no longer yearned for your sweet sight;
When thoughts of you no more did make me sigh
And I no further craved your warmth at night.
What blade did bleed me of that crimson red
And blanched staunch heart that ever beat for you?
How can bright bliss yet slowly dim to dread
And death’s eternal night seem long past due?
The summer’s sun fair greats us every morn
And at it’s zenith, shadows bid adieu,
Yet in the evening when his court adjourns
His light there fails and darkness then ensues.
So love may fade and lovers drift apart —
For what survives the gloaming of the heart?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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