~a sonnet


Lines black encircle my mind and trap those
in love and license, yearning for binding,
that joins their life (or eyes), a look that states
she is his--he is hers. Yet their bare table
does mock, stares solemnly at the bereft;
table sits bare--her emotions feel toyed:
no bouquets, no notes, no messages left--
no amount of writing will fill this void.
She flips through magazines, sees their faces
that smile, hands held; her skin longs to be touched,
a binding marriage--she prays for God's graces
in life, in love, in the book she once clutched,
their oaths seemed sincere with eyes interlocked,
lifelong love is fleeting, erased and mocked.