Love sonnet

I would be cunning if I were to say, 

“I care not for the mem’ries of our youth,

What came to pass, the fires of yesterday

Do not disturb my slumb’ring heart.” In truth

It’s oft awake until the spark of dawn

Ignites the sky, until the eastern welkin

Is set ablaze with ardent hues that spawn

Yet further reminiscing. But mistaken

You’d be, my love, should you presume that I

Dwell on the flaming past, for we’ve been blessed

With here and now; nor would I ever try

To keep the sun from falling in the west:

Together we shall watch the ancient scars

Burn down to ashes strewn amidst the stars.

Live for the Love of it,

Happy

Make a turn.