That Sacred Day [sonnet]
When in those haunted corridors you hide
wherein you try to make another plane
the quest for truth can glibly be denied
and only fantasy and guile then reign.
You cast around to hear approving sounds
while compliments are lavished on your name
and fawning strains from courtiers abound —
just slivers from your broken mirror’s frame.
But, darling, let me whisper in your ear:
You need not confirmation’s bogus show;
for all the love to fast remove your fear
is right here in this starstruck Romeo.
I wait with patience till that sacred day
when all pretence dissolves and fades away.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 