Member-only story
A Sonnet
Shall I compare thee?
‘Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day?’
Or shall I compare thee to an August morn, in ragged clothes all faded and worn.
The leaves have fallen the branches are weak, an effect more galling as the mirror can’t speak.
Sometimes the seasons are most unkind, playing tricks with thine heart and with thine mind.
And oft is the case that age makes us blind, to the ones that we love to whom that we bind.
By chance of age we become inclined, to lose all found to the grit and the grind.
Thrown asunder on unforgiving ground, accomp’nied by thunder, a furious sound.
So long as thoust breathe so long as thoust be, so long as I sing this song to thee
Thou shalst be what thou wants to be, it’s a writer’s poetic life for me. And thou shalst live on in the words that I write.
To the end of all time, long into the night.
