Sonnet, untitled

Your story weaves a singular account
Of what events transpired on your way.
You walked a thousand miles to the mount
But then you found that there you could not pray.
Your hopes, so bright in languid drowsy dreams
Could not compare with dull solidity.
The path you found had ever-darker themes
And drove you off to where you could not be.
Existence in a parallel design
Is frightening and heady like the Spring
All bursting forth with sweet and sultry wine
That holds the musk of every living thing.
A candle in the dark cannot compare
With gentle sunlight streaming in your hair.