3rd January 2014

Sonnet 59

O God, what rapture my small black screen is,

Gets global lovers connected, beguiled;

Relief from whatever home has amiss -

Forget the wife, the dog, the messy child.

You know each other's every move and look,

There's nothing new for you under that sun,

Young love's disenchantment - we wrote the book,

Our lifetime's masterpiece is all but done.
 
Scroll down your text years, whispering what they say:

Lovers, deceivers (What affaires they frame!)

Still breathe  endearments sent from you to they,

Full qwerty French kissing feels same old same.

Dead thumb'ed bards and bardesses these days

Live  in saved histories of much text'd praise.