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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
An English Sonnet about death and his struggles.

Submitted: November 11, 2011

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Submitted: November 11, 2011





When hours are late for one so bright I weep

And tend to fields of death with sword in hand.

As heavy arms grow tired I long to sleep,

But now she calls, I must obey the sand.

These fields of memories I never leave,

These wings of death can never lead to flight.

It’s not my place to love or ever grieve,

My life I owe to Darkness and to Night.

Her music sings, a voice that’s heard by few

(A tender voice which contemplates the soul).

Out, you great light spirit she hardly knew;

Extinguished is her flame whose light I stole.

My work is done, alas I had no choice.

Thy death will be and none shall hear your voice.

© Copyright 2018 Pete Parker. All rights reserved.