Sonnet 3

Oh how my love, it burns with desire.

Like trees hanging onto leaves ‘fore the fall.

Indescribable beauty, none finer,

And with great passions, I give you my all,

But my imperfections are just too great.

How can I be the man I need to be.

The man you deserve, is it not too late,

For me to share my great passions with ye.

But your imperfections aren’t without number,

You draw me away from the greatest light.

The longer my soul dwells with thee, it’s number.

Pull myself away from thee, yes I might!

I will love you with my own dying breath,

As friend, nothing more, till you breath Life’s Breath.