Desist your games, you dratted tricky sprite;
Who over my poetic corpse would dance!
This blinking presence reeks of wicked spite;
Surcease your prance while you still have the chance.
I see your eyes are fraught with great surprise,
In truth, I hate the wicked words to come;
For they are instruments of your demise.
The time is now, I feel my tongue grow numb;
Attend these words, my fay of endless hues;
The day has come for me to say adieu,
For you, my dear; whom I do call "my muse";
Rely on me, like I depend on you!
And as this quarrel ends, my tears shall run;
My muse is gone; a quest for words begun.



Sonnet by Thomas Selnes
Read 1190 times
Written on 2006-09-13 at 11:45

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