Bright flashing eyes, a blush upon her cheek,

this vision that impales me every day,

and ties my tongue, yet nothing I could say

would set me free when she begins to speak.


The sound of her, the scent of her, unique;

the way she moves a classical ballet,

and all the world around her seems so grey

while she is vivid, coloured with mystique.


How is it that she weaves such wizardry

that I am spellbound, captive to her charms?

Can I escape, and would I if I could?

And when she looks at me, why can’t she see

how much I yearn to hold her in my arms,

enfolding her in perfect certitude?

Petrarchan Sonnet Form

◄ Simple Pleasures

Laurence Olivier ►


No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message