Sonnet 2: Of Late

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Of late I’ve sensed the balm of gay blooms breezed
Bidding this universe a slow adieu,
As if time itself feels estranged and grieved
From eves’ gliding glows and morns’ sapid roux.
Through us sprouts angst from tilled blusters exhumed,
Which these, in the end, will mean to us naught;
Thus the bullet-spares ought be tossed to tombs,
Sealed so not to be unloosened from rot.
Then time shan’t longer strum strings of lament,
At which we’d hear a sanguine night reverb;
Mayhap our joys can stretch — with earth’s consent
To defer when high trumpets rang superb.
But if tomorrow takes no vow to be,
I hope thy love be ripe to take with me.