Sometimes, when love is lost, it never comes again. Or perhaps more accurately, it never fades enough for another to take its place. So, my third Shakespearean sonnet.
Tryst
My second Shakespearean sonnet. I often think about the effects of overpopulation, which is of course disastrous. Somehow it seemed a suitable subject of focus.
Inheritance
This began as a pregnant note, jotted down in one of my composition books as I sat in a fast food joint reflecting on the pangs of a friend’s recent betrayal of my loyalty and trust. This note eventually became the second couplet. My friend of many years turned on me quite unexpectedly and I was left stunned, numb, and pensive. I didn’t know at the time that the two lines I jotted down would later expand out into a ghazal that explored a broader spectrum of circumstances involving trust and betrayal.
Default
A field of dreams was sown by the hand of a spoken promise,
but they withered, for your words were merely a token promise.
The light outside is the veil of my great uncertainty;
inside, alone in the dark, I dream of your broken promise.
Your words were fuel for a blaze that warded off the darkness,
but soon the night fell back on embers of smoking promise.
Conviction was a spring that vanished as I neared it;
I was a fool, allured by hints of unspoken promise.
A single hope became the wellspring of all deception,
seeping a saccharine poison, its scent evoking promise.
For years the dreamer wandered through realms of loss and fortune;
adrift on phasing currents, he never woke in promise.
Delusion is a bright-eyed mistress assuring passion,
but time reveals her treacherous ways, revoking promise.
Potential rises like a fog, illumed by a half-moon,
and leaves the unsteady path before us cloaked in promise.
This is my 133rd ghazal.
I suddenly realized there was an entry in my large journal that hadn’t yet been transcribed to ASCII. When I read it over, I realized it might be worth turning into an actual poem.
I’ll find you
The “you” in focus here is the creative self.
