Sonnet VIII -- To A Friend, From A Friend

My capture and possession was no prize
When I was owned in all but fact, by choice.
The times discovered Joy for you - a prize
Of cherished laughter just to hear your voice.

But now you hold me even as the dust
Which gathers grain and mote, among the cracks
Of shattered friendship, loyalty and trust.
Friend Joy has fled and how my spirit wracks.  

So now I long for healing and release,
And yet my heart denies me their sweet grace.
While as my mind cries silently for Peace
I plan my journey further from her face.

	I turn, retread my steps toward your flame.
	I seek my friend to know her once again.