Used to Be

The Sunday Sonnet.

With summer comes the heat, and memories
that weigh like irons on my soul
your brand embedded in my fantasies
painful pleasures never told

Secret rendezvous in long-grassed meadow
shaded by the dampened leaves
underneath the starry heavens
fairy tales that you believed

Rescued from the wasted loving
common sense the dragon slayed
your love now gone, those moments banished
buried where our love once laid

But the graveyard meadow speaks to me
regretful words of used to be



I am out of practice. First poetry in a long time!




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