Wednesday, November 9, 2011

My Dark Love Awaits Me Each Morning

There's a cloud hovers over my love,
The soft vapor 'tis born of her heat,
From her countenance, rising above,
A rain cloud never could seem so sweet.
A shudder does run all down my spine,
As my lips, they are met with her warmth.
Though her cups be not large, still, quite fine,
And I care not the way they are form't.
Her bitterness, each morn I do seek
With days great toils ahead to combat
By her strength might I be rid of sleep,
And with great zeal I do thank her for that.
A Balm in Gilead e'er 'tis found,
When my love is brewed from coffee grounds.

1 comment:

  1. You're pretty damn good at the punch-line sonnet.