SONNET VIII

I breathe, I live; I see, I take, I hold
the hymnal of your body in my hand,
which hopes the hymnal rots and turns to mold
so it cannot be seen on sea or land.
I pray I can forget the lyrics’ rhyme,
but like the moss which grows upon the woods,
it spreads like kudzu, even growing vines
from which it does not swing, though, it well could.
Yes, it could swing and sing its very song,
but rhymes would rather hear their chosen voice,
so like the Mariner of times since gone,
I’m bound to share your rhyme; I have no choice.
But…
I breathe? I live? I see, I take, I hold,
then, my own neck ’til I am fully cold.

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