The Wistful Dove (Sonnet)
by Marky
Routinely lark, though this day depth therein
bemused as why the warbling fluter turned
instilled and sung laments, residing within
and perched unkind; that brittler branches - spurned.
Melodic angst has never sprung so dim
and tunes of fathomed trebles; parted love?
Perchance the ballad pours a swansong hymn;
and from aloft the skies - returns a dove.
If song an' bird be taken dazed with stars
beliefs contort and bowing strings apart
nor stealth be known as fervent dwells the scars,
though bleak the lust for any other heart.
O' feathered, pennate cherub play her whim!
Remain upon the sill and bygones swim.