Love Sonnets 6 and 7

troubadour

VI.

How could I ever be worthy of you,

When you are a goddess – and I – but a man?

When you are braided with beauty through,

And I am crushed in ugliness’s hands?

Every day I strive to improve myself,

Assaying to inspire your affection,

A thankless task when you’re only wealth,

Is never-ending dereliction,

But, inch by inch – degree by degree,

I feel your esteem begin to bloom,

As you perceive the sanctity

Of my intentions – and thus make room

For this troubadour in your heavenly arms

Where the weapons of sadness are soon disarmed

VII.

Before the crowd has finished cheering –

The room still enveloped in applause –

I can barely suppress the waiting tears,

Imprisoned behind my soul’s soft doors,

Though assailed with fervent admiration –

A trifling tart who seldom stays –

I would bear all scorn and denigration,

To be the recipient of your tender praise;

A fruit plucked fresh from honeyed lips;

A sweetness that makes all else taste sour,

Especially when formed in the shape of a kiss;

Which, were you to give me one every hour,

The tension of counting the seconds between,

Would make this passion-pent poet eagerly scream

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