Somewhere

Somewhere between love and death lies my life

There was much strife before and the worst death

Now, since November there is only love

She is a muse alright, much more than that

The Moon loves her as much as I admit

to you and myself, but the Sun will win

through its warmth and the blue light in her eyes

I know she can feel my heart, though at times

I pretend that she can also read this

lonely mind of mine that struggles to hold

on to a semblance of rectitude, stripped

of its principled hue, enveloped now

never before, by what I tend to shout

...

* A sonnet that skipped a line and lost all her rhymes

...

I wrote this now (12-11-2020, 11 pm, Montreal) thinking of you all alone in the crowd of your life, while I was surrounded by all your love.