Sonnet for silence

Are her eyes so ocean-deep? Do they sear into my soul, Each time I dare to fix my gaze? Should I feel such soft, sweet lips, On mine, and should I hear the words I Long for but she never says? Am I but the blinded sheep, Acheing on one fleeting touch, Denying truth I can't conceive? Ever but the silly fool: Silence meets my every try In which my heart lies on my sleeve. Never was I cruelly tret, As now with love for her beset. ["tret" is "treated" and fairly standard in parts of northern England.] This sonnet is entirely real - what a train crash.. How can a man do everything right and yet be totally blanked is if he were just disposable entertainment? It's acrostic so I hope nobody here actually knows her. It's a tetrameter in triplets rather than iambic pentameter in quatrains.