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Just when she considered it futile to stay;
The white owl lone in the belfry sits.
You say I love not; cause I do not play
This game can make one lose their wits.
But try love just once to see how it fits;
I await your consent for a plautine comedy.

So soon after letter her woe to elation flits;
Knowing not love laced with odious tragedy.
That death would choose with wondering eye;
With scorn so pompous it mocked the smart.
With grief she heard him shout and cry;
Oh, swear that never was false of heart.

With trembling lips she uttered a moan;
Bent low upon a grave of emerald stone.

 

 

Photo credits: favim.com

Form: Sonnet

Posted for Meeting the Bar @ dVerse Pub

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Posted on Tuesday Platform @ Real Toads

& on Monday Writes @ My Blog – Verses

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