Just a bunch of sonnets before bed. I am rinky-dink when it comes to literature, but eh. Hope you enjoy and feedback is appreciated.
The Promise of the Winds
An eternity she dreamt of them there
Under the evening sunshine
The rain of dandelions
The pleasant scent of irises
Alone, the two of them, all in perfect align
The gusts of the spring enveloped them;
And his eyes oathed to her: “I shall return, no more wars.”
His hands vowed to her: “My heart and soul, forever yours.”
His heart promised her: “Your sadness but a story read,”
His lips reassured her: “For when I return, no more tears shall you shed,”
And a ring he slipped on her finger: “We meet here again, and we shall be wed.”
T’was long since their oath, till come that fateful day
With the petals of the flora at the winds, asway
Veiled and in white she was, tranquil, in wait
For their reunion, and the love they should share, in spate.
The sky’s orange draped itself black
Yet to come he was, inside, her heart began to crack
A tear she shed, and a whisper she heard
She wondered; was she haunted or assured?
She felt him, she heard him – but yet, why was he not there?
What should she have felt at the sound – happiness, or despair?
Her emotions, her tears – sorrow or joy?
An allusion amidst her confusion
Or the winds at her feelings, the truth but its mischievous ploy?
Contrition
They say the only time you crave for fruits
Is when the trees meet their end.
They say the only time you complain of your money
Is when you no longer have any to spend.
They say the only time you wish for your youth
Is when it passes, ending, without avail.
They say the only time you wish for you wish for another chance
Is when you lose your last; when you meet yourself a fail.
Do you permit your contrition
To take over you, amidst your confusion?
Do you give in to your remorse
And lose the winning play in your court?
Do you succumb to your sorrow
To cease oneself, releasing your tomorrow?
Do you allow yourself to rue
And bid all else with but a simple adieu?
A blossom you find, but lose its fragrance.
"Regret", you subtly utter;
Yet at a time it became your happy substance
Why render it asunder?
What stays in your reminiscence
Will be your growing essence.
The seven coloured bridge in a salubrious sky
It needed the rain for its beauty so high
And to your qualms that bother you so
To contrite is to ruin; learn, and let them go.