Exact from me with whispers rapt and low,
the pace of conjugate contentious sway
into one another’s concert play.
The night reveals a space to deepen, slow
in the rush, the fierce becomes the calm.
Would that I could seal our lover’s sighs
grasping at the moon in starfilled skies,
interjecting sweet familiar psalms
and upon the hallowed, moistened ground,
love and passion fallow, for a time.
Yet the sounds of poesy and rhyme
call out to the blades gone pressing down
and the words that seem to fail in cue
wrap us in the dawn’s evolving dew.

NaPoWriMo 2013 Day 17
Slightly late, but hey, sonnets aren’t simple…

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