A Lover’s Tale

By J. Lynne Moore

Count them not, the ways of love,
Nor the kisses so sickly sweet;
Rival, your whispers do, the cooing of the dove.
How do I love thee, let me repeat?

Heaven sings with angel song…
What more shall my heart birth?
Nay, my lips pressed’n throng,
For the knave whose heart has no girth.

Hell in jest, boasts you grand, cavalier.
A serpent’s heart in your breast does beat;
Alas my love has been wasted dear.
How do I love thee, let me repeat?

I love thee no more than Satan’s son,
And with that our lover’s tale is undone.

(A/N – My first attempt at a “sonnet”, I did not concern myself with the proper meter, just the form.)

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