Sonnet VI

My mind pours forth on pages firstly blank
My eyes blur words writ out before my eyes
I hang my head with my unsounding cries
For numb be death of inspiration bank.
I cannot even think of times of cheer
Imprinted mem’ries of your hand in mine
And fancy of my fantasies divine
All drowned to passive murmurs on my ear.
The finish line, I pass, but do not thank
For out the window bleak my spirit flies
And part of my strong perseverance dies;
No words describe how far my senses sank.
Do take my eyes away from me, do speed!
I do not wish to see how ranked my deed!