Gone are the days when I freely spoke my mind;
I haven't written from the heart in a long time.
I turned from my feelings, fearing what I'd find
If I dared to admit it; to love her is a crime,
One I cannot comprehend. To the roof I climb
And seek out my Heaven, a lonely place afar
Wherein she cannot hear my song, my rhyme
To her, and cannot feel the burning scar
Of where we once touched beneath a distant star.
But that was long ago. Left behind like desert sand
And ancient tales and the strings of an old guitar.
Desire is something I'll never understand.
Still I remain here, complete but brokenhearted.
Perhaps it would have been better had we parted.
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Comments about this poem (Sonnet VI by Naoimh Spence )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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