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When did it shrink, this world, her universe
to just this grassy field on which she lies
next to this one imperfect boy? His terse
words, tenor-timbre’d whispers, seem so wise
to her naïve ears: “Forget, oh, forget
all you’ve been told, we’re not too young to know
we love,” their kisses murmur. No regrets,
her generation’s anthem, an echo
that thrums its cadence in her heart and veins.
She gives herself; he takes, and it’s like drums
beating on her heart: No Regrets. She feigns
belief in whispered words of love, just crumbs
to feed a needy heart. They cannot fill
her; so begins the quest to find what will.
©2008-2009 ~MsStarryskye
:iconmsstarryskye:

Author's Comments

The third of my sonnet crown -- this is for the Lover stage, and adolescence, in Shakespeare's Seven Ages of Man. For my project, I am writing 7 stories and 7 sonnets, the sonnets forming a crown, though regarding women.

One part that annoys me -- I know the noun is timbre (tone of voice) and I want it to be timbred (sounds like timbered) but that is not a word. Timbered isn't the same: so, question to those reading it who care to comment - does timbre'd work for you visually? Any other constructive crit is, as always, welcome.

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:icondeadicedj:
umm wow. that is very beautful writing

--
To live is to want to be free, tied down by responsibilty is killing me, how can this be
:iconmsstarryskye:
It's my dj! long time no see. Thank you, sweetie.

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March 31, 2008
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