I cannot look upon your face but weep
when thoughts of what I might have meant to you
pervade my spirit long after I keep
appointments with our empty rendezvous.
...
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Really love this title; makes me think of some gnarly old Oak tree, out in a field, with a pair of pseudo-eyes composed of some well placed dark knotholes; and a sort of anguished, twisted branch affectation, almost dragging on the ground, as if the very limbs were paralzyed and helpless to grab or reach for anything however close and accessible it might actually be.
now you can't be that old, can you? but by the way you churn out these wonderful sonnets, maybe I'm thinking you are!