A small sonnet

To Be Sincere

Pray, expect I not from thee, sweet dame,

More than what courtesy doth bid thee claim.

Cold kisses, like the frost of morn’s embrace,

A form observed, yet void of passion’s flame.

I seek no lies to cloak thy truest face,

Nor shadows where thou hid’st thy heart’s disgrace.

For he who cannot fool his own soul’s sight,

Dares not let falsehoods in his truth take place.

We share the vices that in darkness creep,

And know full well the errors that we keep.

Suspected of a crime with no trace left,

Where sin doth fade, and secrets softly sleep.

Yet, perchance, in time’s unyielding flow,

Our eyes may meet, and truth’s bright seed may grow.