Sonnet to an Ailing Soul

Rip out from ribs this heart which, burdened, hurts

For to you, tied, your course my life’s sure end.

For if the winds do not make separate words,

The course of sails, then grave, mine, I should win

 

So dig the hole and load the chamber once,

The cheapened price of death, a welcome cent

For if I miss this tiny window’s grunt

All value of my beating heart will quit.

 

Love is cruel and cares not for a heart,

It cares not for its victim’s murdered soul,

Or the hurt and sorrow that imparts

Or fairness of the loveless burning hole

 

The days drop out like sands from hour’s glass;

Will they to funeral or wedding cast?

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