(I)
Our precious months have none for charity...

(I)
What miserable virus plagues ourselves...

(I)
No lovelier of cause has pen to write...

(I)
If weary eyes about this classic form...

You, you with that humdrum
Come feel my heartdrum...

I must compare you to the spring in May!
You warmth a light too have my winter's done...

(I)
Though man with plenty whom proclaim your love...

(I)
Majestic; globalism's own pulsing heart...

(I)
You left the fog that took your heart from us...

About my heart, how'd you learn more than I?
Your time spent loving's less than half love's...

If love has us entwined, then let be three;
And of our genes we splice, proportion you...

The grey-white sky does not depress my view:
Most beautiful of things do turn to grey...