From thy rib, He made–
More natural and dare-say far more pleasing–
Perhaps too, life’s proper side.
Tag Archives: Mystery
Sonnet: Lucky
How can it be that three such friends are blest
With symmetry sublime, doth fit with grace?
What joy, when maketh bonds, that do they see
Such lives so delicately interlace?
So beautifully sinful are they pressed
As each to one another, as they dance;
Yet faithful, and sublime felicity,
Doth somehow over all and each advance.
When first I saw them, to myself, professed
That they, with all my strength, would I protect;
And swore, to this, an oath of secrecy
An any, give me aid, must needs respect;
And thank Whate’er professéd deity
Who brought to light these blesséd, lucky, three.
Intro: If Whimsy doth Take Me
Whatever would the strictest consequence?
Whenever whimsy doth mee, for to take;
Where never doth reality abide.
Sonnet: Lost
Here! the poet’s immortal spirit take.
Though long I have betrayed its inner voice,
And wrote, instead, of love, indeed of choice.
I preached the lie of joy. And though I wake
At night to dreams so horrible they make
Me scream for mercy to a God whose Joys
I shall not ever know; could I rejoice
In some God’s misery for His own sake?
I criticized that fool; yet I am he.
The very fool who lives with naught but grief.
My shallow, poet’s soul shall always be
A measure of society’s belief.
I’ve fought this ugly truth to my last breath;
With nothing to look forward to, save death.
Intro: Journey
This is where I’ve been
But not where I find I am.
Lost, but now I’m found.
Intro: A Prize
Does my faith ever falter
Or does it even exist at all
And what is it anyway?
Sonnet: Shrug
If Atlas’ Eyes were burning from our stain
Of festering foul collectivization;
Shrieking of our dehumanization,
Bloody streamt His Ears with piercing pain;
His Arms, and Knees, and Shoulders, bled with strain
With the weight of our dying population;
Retching! from the stench of our starvation;
Weakening Resolve! at our disdain
For men who build; who might, His Burden, ease.
So, would ye dare to task Him; “Hold Thou, Muse!
One moment more, ’til we depose these smug,
“Self-righteous beasts! No more! shall we appease
Esurience’s philanthropic ruse!”?
Or fear our thousand-years, and bid Him “Shrug!”?
David Emeron: Sonnets 