Sonnet 3 (untitled)

Days of when flowers turn away to bloom
Thine essence of glee fated to wither.
And though it be a tragic heirloom;
Roots yet strong are left to split asunder.
If only Time hath not let thy hand roam
And feared virtue of that as well be cold
Which was once a fertile and moisten loam
Is now a forsaken pot of lone mold.
Lest Mine own words shall choose to deceive me
Then shall demons perpetuate thine evil
Within the world only closed eyes may see;
Breaking thy form against stagnancy of will.
Living a beauteous lie fixed by time
Shall set mine words eternally to rhyme.