"sonnet64"

he lies upon the forest floor,
the prelude to a new decor,
like water in an empty vase
no shape to fill, no place for grace.
the rose so often will be writ,
unlike its thorn in shadowed skit;
remove the thorn the rose will die,
the rose in opposite would cry.
soft tears now touch and pool to limb,
a thorn and rose unite in hymn,
his eyes do close as angels speed,
the hour is now which all agreed.
sweet soul unbound in flight return,
whilst words in whisper wholly yearn.

©'t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
12may14