Curled up around yourself, you form a globe
that's perfect, though it's not a perfect sphere:
a world in microcosm, I suppose,
a sleeping metaphor, trembling its fear.
The lighthouse beam sweeps out across the waves;
departs, leaving the dark. You too were gone
when next I looked; as silence fell, we gazed
upon the Moon as it obscured the sun.
The sea grinds rocks to sand and sinks away;
the shadows cast by clouds will wax and wane;
the seasons turn from green to gold to grey;
all flowers fade like ripples tracing rain.
These fragments blaze like flares, like dancing flame
never to be repeated; all the same.

hahahahahaha terrible trite sonnets to get me used to the form you do not want to know how many times I had to rewrite this so that it managed to actually contain quatrains INSTEAD OF ENDLESS ENJAMBEMENT