It’s not so keen as what you feel within;
It’s not apparent from the outer show.
Our loss of friendship molders from some sin;
some violence the both of us should know.
How could old friends, then, suddenly depart?
Did I say something smug or out of turn?
Unheard within my phrasing, for my part,
my speech made her heart start a slow, slow burn?
They say true friendship is a kind of place
where natural forgiveness hangs its hat.
The trust we had for many years_ disgraced!
So mystical, our friendship died for that?
She flounders as she will not port with me;
I’m here, conjecturing her stormy sea.
(Shakespearean sonnet, 14 lines, abab;cdcd, efef; gg. Iambic Pentameter.)
Day 8, April PAD, Writers Digest