SONNET 4,021




I kept a place inside my heart for him;
A chamber where he stayed and gave me life;
A place where there was never room for sin;
This heart of mine had never loved so right.

The beats of love and poetry dispersed;
Through every single aspect of my soul;
I sang his name and wrote his heart in verse;
But then, as always, newness soon grew old.

For love could never be, nor ever spoke;
I had to take it down from tattered sleeve;
Time chipped away, re-breaking what was broke;
No empathy, nor passion, nor reprieve.

The wasted heart accepts dead poetry;
There never was a place in his for me.


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