“Lamenting round many voices come colleagues,
I said cometh and no one knew of the ataraxy,
Where or how my aperture throbbed daily,
No conations or bannerols just no aplomb for me,

Only an aperture of thorns that love had opened,
I and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouth,
Nor the blood rose that spiraling into the silence,
Dear one can we forget the perennials with such thorns,

It may be that the inlet will wash our prudence labors
The prudence labor of the love slowly apportioned,    
Love for you is the dedicated menial memories afore.
Heated toasts the past frolics of comatose seasons,

Tsunamis and barbarity swarm about our fettered feet
I felt the taste of flaming passion in mouth once again
All can be forgotten of travesties of the former that follow,
As now geysers that have flood deep in a vault of passion
  
May all be subdued to the useful and momentous occasion?
Come dear with me as if this will be our last day on this earth,
To the sounding furrows of a sonnet to our invigorated sonnet”
By Andrew Guzaldo 01/05/2020 © #183