Fri
Sep
18
A Sonnet
How grand it is the doom that waits for me
Here lies a pattern that I can’t escape
My past, my present, future plain to see
So many things which leave my heart agape
Each time almost, but never quite the same
Each want more desp’rate, urgent than the last
Except, of course, when you might share the name,
the habits, manner, stolen from those passed
Yet somehow, doom here tastes of something more
No painful flutter of what might have been
And when I wonder what this holds in store
I do forget all others that I’ve seen
This doom I’ve found resembles naught that’s old
The world can see the diff’rence, so I’m told
