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Shakespearean Sonnets: Battlefields of Love and Faith Collection
O Beauty; Beauty you’re a fleeting dove.
Though you may tower o’er God’s great Kingdom,
It isn’t you who drives my soul to love;
It isn’t you that defeats all wisdom.
O how fare; how fare your starlit eyes are;
Yet it is not how fare that gaze is to me,
Though I may search one thousand miles wide and far,
And find no such sight that sets my cold heart free.
No, alas, tis you that is hidden behind;
Tis you, Behind such oppressive beauty;
Tis you, whose soul’s purity is unconfined;
Tis you, that makes me neglect all duty.
But if I could have a single moment;
O, all my despair would seem so distant.
Though I hear you speak of undying love;
Though you smile and say we will be okay;
Though I lie beside my sweet gentle dove;
I still see your pain from that sinful day.
You say you’ve moved on, forgotten my wrongs;
You swear to the end, I am forgiven;
Urge me to let go, your heart to me belongs;
Yet I know no pardon can I be given.
The way I mistreated you, my lovely rose;
Never fed or nourished to help our love grow;
Instead of shading from the harsh wind that blows;
Turned to other flowers while you were in snow.
Now, though you blossom pedals of amour,
I see the wilted leaves my sins have bore.
I wake up, from another night of dreams;
Where I saw a man who could not speak.
And he set sail across the open seas,
From port to port wandered o’er the sea
And he screamed, but no one could ever hear,
And he called, from atop a c’thedral roof,
Words drifted in the streets but found no ear.
From town to town, he stumbled on aloof.
Then he saw, his face inside a dark lake,
Staring back, from somewhere beyond the deep.
So he spoke, to the face behind the wake.
From man to man, they both began to weep.
As I wake, I look into the window,
And I cry alone, my head fallen low.
What is a man whose mouth can never speak;
Whose ideas are never shared or spoken;
Who thinks but refuses to face critique;
What man would allow his voice to be stolen?
Tis their a poet who writes words in verse,
As brilliant as the cosmos itself,
Yet fears the burning sting of judgments curse,
And in his head remain his words of wealth?
I say sing Lara, sing of Jupiter,
Sing of his love and illicit affair;
And fly on the wings of poesy’s meter,
Let your hidden words be heard I declare!
For what is a man’s thoughts if never heard?
For there is purpose behind every word.
Love is held and just as swiftly taken;
Changing hearts and endlessly shuffling lives;
Changing souls and divine calls from heaven;
Love so shortly is held before it dies.
Love can be sep’rated by the Lord’s own scythe,
Kith and kin passing into eternal sleep,
Awaiting the ground and paradise’s light,
Shall I cry or weep or hold my hate deep?
No, for whether lover or kith or kin,
Tis these relations that made me a man,
Hold not hate and regret not a lover’s sin,
Or mourn for the suffered and passed kinsmen;
For if not for those who I’ve known and loved,
This hand may not fit into his own glove.
Friend, is it enough to simply believe;
To loveth the Lord, who’s up in heaven,
From within a silent and solemn reprieve;
To have faith, yet never leave the Garden?
If God’s grace is all that really matters,
If my faith in Christ will ensure my place,
Shall I steal away into a cloister;
From the tempting sun shall I hide my face?
Or friend, is there more to this word called faith?
‘What does it profit, my brethren,’ said James,
‘If one says he has faith, will faith alone save?’
All you have is words, and prayers, and saintly names.
Am I to be damned by birth to holy fire;
Or may I stave the wrath of the fune’ral pyre?
All life doth end in a measly instant;
The leaf doth wither in the sun and fall;
Fall from the trees that dry up in the distance;
A distance that fades behind twilight and squall.
All love doth sputter out like a midnight flame,
Flickering at the end of a candle,
Like the crescent moon above swoons and wanes,
From innocence and youth to sinful vandal.
Still, sprouts doth spring in the bright Easter day,
And storm doth nourish the lands that bear them.
Flame sparkles from stars across the twilight fray
And the moon is reborn a full new gem.
Shall I wait for you Archangel of Death;
Or cherish every moment and every breath?
Author Bio and Intentions
I graduated from the Pennsylvania State University in 2012 with a Bachelors of Arts in English Studies. Focusing on creative non-fiction, poetry and fiction writing genres, I have been trained and educated in many forms of rhetoric. My passion for writing has always been the most important thing in my life. It is my hope and desire to get my original work out to the community, in order to generate a following an eventually replace tradition employment with a freelance career. Please, follow, comment, and share as nothing is possible without the support of this wonderful community of artists. Thank, you. Cheers, folks!
This life doth beckon the hardest of rains,
And bringeth the floods of a thousand storms.
Lightning cracks and scorches mountains and plains,
Leaving only rubble, corpses, and worms.
Disease, pestilence, plague, vermin, and blight;
coughing soot and dirt, awaiting our time.
Four horseman ride long, rav'ging all in sight;
The Earth is their range, our lives an earned dime.
Still, in the stalking face of our demise
Should man loseth hope, surrender, bow down;
Or face the slings and arrows and rise,
Taking arms 'gainst Seas refusing to drown?
For all expire as the great wheel turns,
yet action prevails and never adjourns.