Sonnet 29 - Loving Without First Being Loved Poem by Dennis Lange

Men speak of some as accidents or frill,
An undesired collision on the road,
As if the baby was a break or spill,
A cancer, or a tumor, or a node.

Though some, once told, are wrapped in arms of love,
Too many hear the words with their intent -
To pour an acid scorn down from above,
To make the lad or lass lower than lint.

What emptiness there is when one's not planned;
What loneliness exists among cold stars
When there's no space allotted, heart or hand,
When sun and moon are pitted, hard with scars.

The challenge is when love has not one nursed:
To find an outer source and be the first.