Sonnet 1 – Beauty

What brush could score to canvas your design,
Being, as sight itself, a miracle?
It's lines would mock what nature did define
When sculpting, what I claim to be, it's pinnacle.
Alas, my trite, inept, attempt at verse
Suffers no charge of taste before the crowd,
For if the situation were reverse
And you drawn from my lines, there’d be none proud.
Yet one cannot be held to ill account
For playing with the fire of word and rhyme
When glancing ‘pon a vision none surmount
And wishing to preserve it for a time.
Forgive me, then, each bumbling line that tries
To paint your perfect beauty with their lies.

Sonnet 2 - Sorrow

What language could define the fallen tear
And paths it took to reach its settled pond,
Where on...