Whatever would the strictest consequence?
Whenever whimsy doth mee, for to take;
Where never doth reality abide.
Tag Archives: True
Sonnet: Utopia
O Let us rant, O young, for soon we die,
Too old to matter, let us have our say;
For soon enough, your will your hand shall try;
Time cometh soon that might you have your day.
If you succeed, you’ll not respect the dead,
But jeer and mock us all within our graves;
But old are we, who’ve seen so many tread,
And end, as ill, their chosen path as slaves.
So time and time again, your plans will fail;
But ne’er will you remember how we warned;
By then, our warning will to no avail;
Nor, of us, memory, but were we scorned.
If honest, you would scorn yourselves as well;
Deep down, this brave new world, you knew were Hell.
Intro: Let us rant
Let us rant, you young,
for soon enough we will die,
too old to matter.
Continue reading
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!”?
Intro: Atlas
When once, Atlas, you beheld
Holding, as we are now, Earth aloft,
What would you He do?
Sonnet: Thieves
Through turns and twists, an endless beat, we ran;
I’d spurn the mists, descend to meet with thee.
We’d turn a bend upon a stone, and we
Would earn an end, and on our own, began.
But for a while–and never knowing when–
Once more to smile, then time to go, it was.
Through turns, we twist, an endless beat, and us
Returned, we list, pretend, and meet again.
You’d wrest some rest from lies and flight, and stole
From me some paradise, not quite forlorn.
I took, from you, a measure of that sworn
A garden, too. You stole no treasure, whole;
But gave us shrift, though magical and brief.
Forgiveness gifts me gratitude, my thief!
Intro: Four or Five
of four or even five
the Rhymes trip, unbidden, along they go
I gave them no assistance
David Emeron: Sonnets 