SONNET II.
Through me, time moved—and tore apart my strings,
as sharpened trials pierced straight into my hope—
again, again, a hundred times it stings,
from every side, each way, each tested scope.
So still I stand, and sadly turn behind,
to seek for shards of something that once stayed.
And dare not hope—perhaps to blame the kind
that is the world? Or me, for what decayed?
For illusion stole from me the fleeting part,
and left me only emptiness and haste.
Can one at fault receive a pardoned heart?
Forgive herself? The chance…? I bow, erased,
worn down beneath the stroke that fate has spun,
yet know I am—and simply will be, one.
Author: Veron
