Sonnet- Xvii Poem by Sherwin Ilagan

Deep green, the laurels of thy being queen
Surrounded by sweet incense from the scent—
Of long lost manuscript that can't be seen
By given sight, in plight is where I spent
Thro' my devotion unto thee, must gain—
Such trust! To reconcile to what we've sworn.
Afore the eyes of God, we must obtain—
Those precious rings; shall then again reborn.
And if my great election guides me through
The things I'd pray'd beneath the heaven's gate!
Shall tolerate myself to what is true?
O fill'd my soul with faith to thee I'll wait.
Forgotten may it seems, but it won't die—
Thro' certainty there's virtue to rely.