Sonnet
Surely a most saintly art, a contract something godly lends,
in sonnet form much people wrote, and o’er many years;
Unto themselves vain poets dote, devoting odds, and losing friends,
their pride tearing the truth apart, their intent swayed by love and fears-
Seldom should our senses lie, yet truth is only real in part,
so words erase what tricks our ears, and soon we find ourselves in song;
Most powerful are words when tears, uproot our world, and sink our heart,
it comes out too strong when we cry, and no one knows themselves when
wrong-
So truth we tell ourselves in truth is truth that light of day provides,
but beauty in itself consoles us, works of art to lonely eyes;
The sonnet form wraps truth in beauty, masking what the heart decides,
and no less true on reading, is it, where the reader’s heart arrives.
It’s strange the stress we keep inside, does not escape our beating chest,
yet ne’er was a better way, to let it out, and get some rest .
Kind Regards
