A Petrarchan-esque Sonnet

There he stands, more splendid than Leander.
To him the gods granted strength unsurpassed.
Power is revealed in his broad shoulder.
Auburn curls are the laurels he’s amassed.
So sweet a face the world has never seen.
Refreshing wellsprings of joy are his eyes.
Glistening snow dims with his smile’s sheen.
His ever playful lips are my demise.
Angelic choirs sound not so sweet
when compared to the rich strains of his voice
And gentle Hero is a brutal cheat
set against loving kindness, his by choice.
I know not why God chose this to grant me
But of this I never wish to be free.

Innocence at 4

Yesterday, the little boy next door
wanted to play.
But the driveway of gravel rocks
and piles of matchbox cars
were only fun for a little while.
So he asked me to come inside and play
and promised he had an amazing prize
just for me, if I would.

So he took me into a dark and dirty bedroom,
crumpled clothes everywhere
and he told me to crawl under the bed.
He followed me, blocking
the rectangle of light,
made by the wooden planks
and shag carpet.

I went home.
I don’t like him anymore.
He’s a liar.
He never gave me any prize.