Sonnet XIV

It’s said that love makes instant poets yet
I’m skilled already in the art of poetry.
I write so gladly; rules I must defy,
For now, in love, I find my tongue is tied.

This sonnet truthfully, took days to write,
Where usually they take but half an hour.
I don’t know why or how love twists its spell,
But now I know it’s this poor poet’s hell.

I cannot say my love has been returned,
But she has tangled me in love’s cruel knots.
She knows not that my love exists for her.
Too young to die, yet dying from her spurn.

A silence dawns, made from a loss of sense,
But I would live in silence, just for her.