Secret Sonnets

The day has dawned, but all the birds stay silent as the stars.
Aurora’s rays of sunlight hide, like poet’s secret scars.
The sky is grey, just like the poet’s melancholic mind,
subdued by stress, since soul-enchanting sonnets he can’t find!
The air is stale. The kind, caressing, kissing winds won't blow.
The poet’s paused, for from his placid pen the ink won't flow.
The trees won't sway. Upon the heathered hills, where by the stream
reclines his muse, the goddess, who could grace a poet’s dream.
The sun sinks low, and day declines, as darkness cloaks the world.
The poet’s robe, around the grieving poet’s shoulders curled.
The hope has died, the sea of faith that once did soothe his fears
has dried, and left behind a valley for his tragic tears.
The moon’s gaunt glow casts solemn shadows on the poet’s pride.
He grieves alone, for all the secret sonnets that inside have died.