366 Poems: October 27th, 2016

Untitled Sonnet

Alas, if this night is my final chance

and all our precious time is bought and sold

(a tragedy, for it is worth not gold),

I’m glad I taught you how to love to dance.

At our first dance, you were a sinking stone

into the depths of cornered, curtained rooms

and just as each spring month, the flower blooms

into the gentleman– My, how you’ve grown!

And my, how our love’s grown to be so sweet

with every springing step of young romance.

A life of constant sweeping off your feet

and taking in the light of every glance.

And if this ballad is left incomplete,

please reminisce of how we loved to dance.

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