Sonnet Three

It seems we aren’t a match as I once thought.
Confusion wraps around me like a belt,
Whenever I examine my own lot
And gaze upon the hand that I’ve been dealt.

That belt of doubt so tightly buckled strains
The limits of my bodily design
Till suffering for breath my spirit wanes
And cries out for that special kind of wine

That, once consumed, will cause the belt to burst
Resulting in a roar, quite like a beast
Approaching you in hunger, yea, in thirst,
To gobble and to guzzle and to feast.

If only I were not so tightly torn,
The lass I love would not be so forlorn.

© A. Pope 2019