Italian sonnet


Shattered portrait – a chance to start again –

And sweet prose addressed from quite a distance:

Friendships lost for all time, not existence.

Typed-up, and yet not my words – not my win.

They were simply something that I missed Р thin.

Some days they jabbed, stabbed, lacking eloquence.

Other days the words roared soft compliments.

Still I recall when I made my first friend.


By the end, there was a dance to my step,

But the beginning was all rage and tears.

Woe! From my one fiction to another:

I look back on the note to Him I kept,

More heart, blank slate, in those few words than fear;

Kiss the night, “Bye,” just like all the others.

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