A Kind of Sonnet

When I have risen early from my bed          
to force myself to best the day’s surmise
I find my mood is ragged, hollow, shred.
I hate dawn’s rosy fingers at sunrise.

I’d rather stay all twined within my sheets
For you are there, and leaving you behind
when staying promises delights aesthetes
would die to taste and revel in supine  
is foolishness, and like to wrath the gods
for spurning their good gift to me that’s you.

But duty calls and duty wants its aching due
so sore a thing its burden is; the bloody sod.
And so I grumble up myself to face anew  
another day far from the nesting of
your arms, far from the rest you bring to me  
when I, within their fold, am made to see
how blissful life can be, how it’s enough,
not wealth, or fame, to lift me up to glee.

But then I think of how you wait  for my return
and I can say to duty then, O burn, you wanker, burn!