Sandrine Sonnet Cycle - Restless

Such separation leaves six senses weak
As if both legs above the shoulders lay,
No cheek to blush may rise, no tongue to speak,
Despair’s writ large, like critic’s praise for pay.
Restless within cramped lodgings one may range
In hope for call to light an inner fire,
Nor is the waiting in itself so strange -
Existence starts and ends with her desire.
Various solutions might be found
Although none draws except electric touch
Intense to shock the system, turn around
Love’s magic whirlpool’s counter-clockwise clutch!
Lent one fair hand, then writing on the wall
ANon Time’s thrall would fade beyond recall...

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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