Forever More (English Sonnet) Poem by Gert Strydom

The soft breeze brings the fragrance of flowers,
the broken jasmine looks speckled with dew,
the fragrance linger in the air for hours
near to the door the fragile petals strew

as if a sickle passed them on its way,
they do the pathway up to the door fill,
is the result of hail earlier the day.
The whistles at the factories do shrill,

my fingers twist the key in the old lock,
open the door to being more alone,
its midday and precisely twelve o'clock.
To emptiness I have accustomed grown:

I remember you standing at the door
but you are gone and it's forever more.