An Attempted Sonnet
She is Christmas past
In a way, to most goes unseen
Radiant with purity too true to last
Yet with her my love tends to lean
And from love’s light a face revealed
Beauty of Skin and bone this portrait mild
For such divinity must lie concealed
From this light my affection riled
Absurd though this passion be
For this task a Godly hurdle
Passion drives the very heart of me
So I chase this heavenly hare, me, a mortal turtle
For she, this girl Christmas, I shall make haste
Toward this love of mine, an unending race
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