My lover’s eyes are nothing like the sun,
coral is far more red than her lips’ red.
If snow be white, why then, her breasts be dun.
If hair be wires: black wires grow on her head.
I’ve seen roses damasked, both red and white,
but no such roses see I in her cheeks.
In certain perfumes is there more delight,
that in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
that angels have a far more pleasing sound.
I grant, I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I find my love as fair,
as any she belied with false compare.
-Shakespeare, telling the truth about his lover.
I can’t do sonnets,
I’ve mentioned before.
My words are too full of life to be kept
locked up like that.
I would not want to set false expectations for them,
and by that,
I mean her,
my Muse who has quite recently had to choose between what is right and what feels so.
Manipulated by Machiavellian men
I cannot compete.
I am honest and caring and head over heels,
and she cares for what I do,
which is nice.
The thought of her makes me wake up with a smile,
and I would so have enjoyed
staying with her
until I was no longer needed
which was shorter than I hoped.
She has such a beautiful outlook on life
and sees things naively,
and the good in people
which is bad
There are far better men out there than I could ever hope to be,
but I want her,
and I would have thunk see feels the same.
I am a mere pawn.
-Charlton, 11 May 2019