Winter’s week

Shall I compare thee to the winter’s week?
Thou art more elegant and more angelic:
Harsh storms do shake the innocent leaves of December,
And frost’s loan cold all too brief for a tryst;
Sometimes too cool the shelter of Eden conceal,
And often is her ashen complexion faint’d;
And every fair from fair sometime decays,
By fate or nature’s changing course untamm’d;
But thy eternal winter shall not die,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death boast thou wander’st in his gloom,
When in undying lines record past thou grow’st:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


Malilith and Ila stares at the blank ceiling, hand in hands. Ila has killed another poem again and he sees it. Kill one to revive another. Have one thing, let go another. Love something, hate another. But missed something, missed another. Because the one you have missed will never come back. Those cruel and unforgiving time will never let go.

And so long I wish he’d see,
How eternal winter remains unrest,
How winter could never match his glare,
The perfection of eyes one could never dream.
Cold hold his hands in the shades,
Death grabs but fails,
His beauty stay, immortalized in words,
And that memory live, restrained.

As long as the time won’t devour,
Those last affection attached,
There will be more of you,
And my unfulfilled wishes towards,
Will somehow stay afterwards.


~ by Malilith Ila on August 17, 2008.

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