They call this condition, September blind.
Secret eyes peek from silky autumn-brown.
On lifting wisps of wind, her scent does find --
A head adorned with thorny, lovelorn crown.
In the warming wet; in our blissful smiles;
On banana-bikes; on mossy-rock shores --
Our union dropped by circumstantial trials
That divide one love into distant doors.
In space-time loops I will search forever --
And, once again, until that plain I find.
From nebulous clouds to Heaven's lever.
I sense her ... so near -- but, I cannot bind!
In-between two 'verses she lives and dies.
How does one cross those parallel skies?
September 1, 2016
English Sonnet 3 - Poetry Contest
Copyright © Tom Arnone | Year Posted 2016