Controlled Burn

A Shakespearean Sonnet

Within me burning the fires of fright
Consume the fibre of my dying heart.
The singeing pain doth tear my faithful sight:
What Love is this that tears me thus apart?

What mockery, when passion's fury spent
For but a moment kindled with desire;
Deep well of darkness, a lasting moment?
No! Love would be more than flaming attire.

Love needs burn without consuming--
As the acorn withstands the blistering heat
Thus flame forth brightness all illuming:
Saplings birthed seed no defeat.

The fire doth burn warmer when burning low:
Bank the embers, embrace the glow.