Accidents Happen

'Twould seem that this is not a sonnet, sir,
And not a poem written to ask why
Your taciturn responses don't concur
With accidental hope we felt inside.
'Twould now seem that your feelings were a lie,
As bogus as to rhyme "inside" with "why" -
And unto Love this scheme repeats its cry
To question of your words what they imply.
As accidents do happen, I confess
Perhaps the Willow raised her eyes too soon.
Perhaps the Stream to roots could not digress...
Perhaps our instruments were out of tune.

            If accidents do happen when one tries,
            Then so one has, and I apologize.

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