Sonnet XVIII

What once was dead has found its way to life;
Some tear-stained words were born on those blue clouds.
Now this poor past has come to walk past strife
And come to terms with thoughts once drowned in shrouds.
I wrote her once, or twice, some months ago,
Some words transposed on blue clouds like her own.
But I assumed she did not read or know
Of what I wrote that night. How had I known
It was withheld for her to see with time?
I stand the fool in judging with blind thoughts
That she be feigning in this misled crime.
Her sincere words succeed these twisted knots.
So let us talk and share what we did once.
Let closure take the place of wrong silence.