Sonnet I: A Grave Of Butterflies

My life was but a grave of butterflies;

Stacked wings that wanted to fly far and wide.

Never did I expect the gloomy skies

To allow your brightness that they could hide.

I plead pardon for I lack lexicon,

Enough to depict your splendor my love.

Piled pinions did your mercy fall upon;

To olive branches you are but a dove.

Take a note of the fleeting time we spend,

For it shall only be to reminisce. 

I dread the hour this fantasy may end

And I shall wake up into my abyss.

Men know not what lies in their sands of time

For you don't reside in their sonnet's rhyme.