A sonnet of apology to myself
In silent hours, my heart does softly plea,
For wounds I've wrought, with callous hands of fate,
Each moment lost, a shadow cast on me,
Regret does weave a fabric of my state.
O tender self, forgive the harshest word,
That from my lips like arrows sharp...
For wounds I've wrought, with callous hands of fate,
Each moment lost, a shadow cast on me,
Regret does weave a fabric of my state.
O tender self, forgive the harshest word,
That from my lips like arrows sharp...