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Sonnet VII

Sweet saccharine voice of yours,
Sing to me the tales of your heart,
Before I fall into the conduit of love.

For till then, time is not time,
And love is not love,
For what price could one give to abscond from it?

To grieve over the loss,
would be an action so ephemeral,
that it would disappear into sweeping winds.

But if it is so,
I would disappear into it.
For my loss would be grieved,
For far too much of You.

Author notes

Part of C sonnets.

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