Sonnet XLVII

The spurned will always grope for happiness
And compensate their lacking with their tears.
Their cries are empty, fallen, desolate;
Their cheerless plight will fall on deadened ears.

Our sightlessness is blinding avarice.
While others writhe in dismal pain,
We smile – on purpose! - gladly ignorant.
Indeed, lethargy is our disdain.

We shed our tears and drink them, desperate.
Our fears, we swallow as our daily bread.
For no one sees our lacrimosity.
Our anguished agony upon our heads,

The spurned will scream their names to deadened air.
And echoes mock them, beckoning despair.