Sonnet for Erica
There was a humble spirit of the garden
Who trappèd was inside a cave of ice
Where she would diligently pray for pardon,
Millenia remote from Paradise.
Hours each day she meekly sacrificed
While others of her kind busied themselves
Without a care for their routine of vice
Mounting their golden idols on their shelves.
Seldom they paused, and seldom would they delve
Into the depths of her resignèd sorrow
Nor could they help but count their days in twelves
Ticking each hour from now into tomorrow;
Little she knew the garden since had dried,
And it was thirsty for the tears she cried.
[This message has been edited by Local Parasite (09-07-2004 06:55 PM).]