Wild Dove, A Sonnet

I have grown to adopt the habit of borrowing a miser's envious sadness;
Letting things become inappropriate, letting purpled thoughts stain love.
Yet, I know this: The very core of my own affection is pulsing madness,
Though your presence has strangely visited me like a wild dove.

Having fed the subconscious mind's desire has disrupted this soul's peace;
When the reasons for your melancholia and charming ways I've ached to reap.
The Christian's virtues must overrule and the lust of the flesh must decrease:
Yet I may have been settling for second best all this while, waltzing through life asleep.

It is unfair to be watching you with a lazy eye
(It rests upon what has always seemed to give it rest.)
It is painful to deny the way my dream-state self wakes to cry -
It takes a pounding and a bruising blow to the chest.

Yet, I know this: The very heart of this sonnet reeks of raging madness;
I must starve the habit of borrowing a miser's illogical, reckless sadness.