Sonnet
Upon the turning of this world's great sphere,
When verdant summer fades to golden brown,
The hurried sun more briefly lingers here,
And pulls the long day's weary curtain down.
The restless wind begins a plaintive call,
That shakes the leaves and whispers through the eaves,
As if to mourn the passing of the fall,
And sigh to see the dying of the leaves.
Yet in this change, a quiet grace I find,
A deeper beauty in the fading light,
For in the winter, we can train the mind
To see the stars that populate the night.
So let the darkness bring its cold embrace,
To show the distant wonder of our space.
Sonnet
The digital ghost that haunts the modern age,
Is but a whisper of a fading sound,
We turn the screen instead of turning page,
And seek a truth on hollow, shallow ground.
The rapid flicker of a fleeting sight,
Obscures the steady flame of human thought,
We trade the long discussion for the light,
Of easy answers that our searches brought.
Yet still, a hunger burns within the soul,
To build and learn, to labor with the hand,
To make a part of something that is whole,
And see the fruit of planting on the land.
So let us lift our gaze beyond the screen,
To find a greater, more substantial scene.
Sonnet
The city sleeps, but still its neon burns,
A steady hum that never leaves the air,
The restless concrete every moment turns,
Beneath the weight of progress and of care.
The lonely siren cuts a wailing streak,
And marks the silent suffering of night,
While hurried feet across the pavement sneak,
Escaping from the day's oppressive light.
But in this shadow, stories come to life,
Of dreams and longing, and of chance's roll,
Of hidden art that cuts away the strife,
To give the weary, hopeful, searching soul.
For in the darkness, hope can take its flight,
And make a small and independent light
Sonnet
The painter's hand, with brush and colored stain,
Doth chase the fleeting shadow of the day,
To capture light, and make the moment reign,
Before the changing clouds have blown away.
So too the poet strives with crafted verse,
To hold a feeling in a perfect line,
And bid the passing moment not disburse,
But rather, in a structured space, to shine.
For art is but a mirror to the soul,
Reflecting back what time would bid us lose,
A fragile effort to complete the whole,
From scattered fragments of what we must choose.
And in this striving, we can find a trace,
Of some small, perfect, and enduring grace.
Sonnet
The lonely vessel on the ocean wide,
Looks to the stars for comfort and for guide,
And trusts the compass, though its heart may hide,
A certain fear, where surging passions ride.
The ancient mariner, with weathered face,
Has seen the sea in fury and in peace,
And learned to navigate that endless space,
Where restless waters find their dark release.
So does the soul, on life’s great, troubled sea,
Look for a truth that rises from the deep,
A constant star, for all the world to see,
To find the promises that it must keep.
For though the storms of doubt may rage and tear,
A steady faith can dissipate the fear.
Sonnet
The silent forest holds a patient thought,
Where ancient trees have watched the seasons turn,
And heard the lessons that the wind has taught,
A whispered wisdom that they long to learn.
The dappled sunlight sifts through leafy lace,
And paints a pattern on the forest floor,
A thousand years of slow and steady pace,
Has seen the ebb and flow, and asked for more.
The tiny seed, that waits beneath the ground,
Holds all the promise of the coming spring,
The quiet cycle, where the life is found,
A hopeful song that nature loves to sing.
So let us listen to the ancient wood,
And know that what will come, will be for good
Sonnet
The ancient clock upon the mantel stands,
And ticks away the moments one by one,
A steady witness with unmoving hands,
To all that starts beneath the rising sun.
It marks the promise of a newborn day,
And charts the progress of a weary year,
It watches as our dearest dreams decay,
And stands unmoved by every falling tear.
For time is not a river we can cross,
Nor but a measure of our mortal breath,
It is the price of every gain and loss,
The silent, steady march towards our death.
So let us hold each present moment fast,
Before the future melts into the past.
Sonnet
The tired scholar, bent above his tome,
With dusty pages turned by gentle hand,
Finds worlds and stories far away from home,
And seeks to learn what few can understand.
He traces letters, centuries since wrote,
And hears the echoes of a distant mind,
A phrase that ancient, learned fingers quote,
To leave a little piece of them behind.
For in the words, a hidden truth resides,
That bridges chasms built by passing years,
And deep within the printed passion hides,
A voice that speaks to all our human fears.
So read the book, and find the timeless art,
That starts the beating of a lonely heart.
Sonnet
The quiet morning, with its gentle mist,
Arises from the slumber of the night,
And carries on the promise of a tryst,
Between the coming darkness and the light.
The fragile dewdrop clings to blade of grass,
And holds a universe within its sphere,
A perfect moment that will soon all pass,
As warmer sunbeams cause it to appear.
So may our fragile moments, briefly held,
Reflect the larger world in which we live,
And may the stories that our lives have spelled,
Be more than what a hurried world can give.
For in the small and fragile, we may see,
A glimpse of all that’s meant for you and me
Sonnet
The anachronistic burden of the mind,
Doth weigh upon the weary spirit’s grace,
As erudition, thoughtfully defined,
Confronts the transient phantoms of this place.
The philosophic dialectics cease,
To grant the soul a genuine accord,
When mortal frailties usurp the peace,
And every fabricated truth’s ignored.
For all the intellectual artifice,
Is but a fragile and transparent shield,
Against the primal, unfeigned emphasis,
That raw, unmitigated grief can wield.
The polysyllabic heart, though eloquent,
Is still by simple, crushing sorrow rent.
Sonnet
The obfuscations of the corporeal,
Distort the lucid soul’s perception clear,
To render every moment ephemeral,
And fill the present with a future fear.
The incandescent passion, long since spent,
Is but a phosphorescent, fading spark,
A vestige of a time of true intent,
That leaves the spirit wandering in the dark.
The supererogation of the heart,
To give beyond its most essential need,
Is now considered but a foolish art,
Or some sentimental, unproductive deed.
Yet in this excess, one might yet retrieve,
A purer love in which one can believe
Sonnet
The indefatigable progress of the age,
Doth manifest its omnipresent hand,
Upon the soul's insensate, barren stage,
To subjugate the contemplative mind's demand.
The technological crescendo of our time,
Extends its reach beyond the corporal,
And substitutes the analogic rhyme,
For synthesized and algorithmic call.
The fabricated, simulacral glee,
Is but a hollow echo of the whole,
A digital, imperfect mimicry,
That cannot satisfy the human soul.
For in the silence, where the echoes cease,
The self-illumination finds its peace.
Sonnet
The obfuscations of the corporeal,
Distort the lucid soul’s perception clear,
To render every moment ephemeral,
And fill the present with a future fear.
The incandescent passion, long since spent,
Is but a phosphorescent, fading spark,
A vestige of a time of true intent,
That leaves the spirit wandering in the dark.
The supererogation of the heart,
To give beyond its most essential need,
Is now considered but a foolish art,
Or some sentimental, unproductive deed.
Yet in this excess, one might yet retrieve,
A purer love in which one can believe.
Sonnet
The labyrinthine convolutions of the brain,
Construct a narrative to understand,
The existential, variegated pain,
That plagues the heart and governs all the land.
The preternatural impulse to believe,
In some fantastic, ultimate design,
Permits the human spirit to perceive,
A cosmic purpose, utterly divine.
The introspective and recursive quest,
For certitude within a boundless sea,
Is but an introspective, weary test,
Of mortal limitations, you and me.
For in the knowing, we may find release,
From doubt's insidious, relentless lease
Sonnet
The incandescent panorama of the stars,
Reflects an unimaginable expanse,
Ignoring every minuscule of wars,
Or humankind's infinitesimal advance.
The cosmic indifference, so profound,
Doth render every human enterprise,
A futile, transient, and forgotten sound,
Beneath the gaze of universal eyes.
Our grand ambitions, our profoundest art,
The delicate construction of our schemes,
Are but a momentary, flickering part,
Of constellations and celestial dreams.
And yet, in our ephemeral design,
A fleeting, fragile, consciousness can shine.
Sonnet
The intellectual's perpetual disdain,
For unexamined, popular belief,
Doth constitute a monumental, certain pain,
And offer little permanent relief.
For in the microscopic, fine-grained view,
The analyst constructs a reasoned maze,
But lacks the comprehensive, larger clue,
That simple faith provides in simple days.
The intricate mechanics of the mind,
Can deconstruct all beauty into parts,
And leave the sentimental soul behind,
With all its unsubstantiated arts.
The rationalist, in his sagacious quest,
May lose the beating in his burdened chest.
Sonnet
The subterranean currents of the soul,
Doth seek expression through the fractured light,
To make the disparate pieces seem a whole,
And conquer the amorphous, inner night.
The psychological, complex design,
Of human motive, tangled and obscure,
Defies the logical and clear confine,
Of every simple, self-professed allure.
The conscious mind, a delicate facade,
Conceals the primal, subterranean stream,
Of fears and memories, and things unmade,
That constitute the existential dream.
The analyst, with his profoundest art,
Cannot completely plumb the human heart
Sonnet
The superlunary, transcendental plane,
Escapes the gross terrestrial mind’s design,
For mortal logic strives, and strives in vain,
To grasp the absolute and the divine.
Our presuppositions, so profound,
Are but a momentary, fleeting guide,
To navigate the consecrated ground,
Where universal mysteries reside.
The numinous, a presence felt, not known,
Eludes the verbal and the syllabical,
And leaves the rationalist to stand alone,
Before the truth, that’s anti-logical.
For in the silence, one may find a way,
To glimpse the light that mocks the passing day.
Sonnet
The indefatigable, urban-sprawl extends,
Its cold dominion, concrete and profane,
Where every curated path descends,
Into a subterranean, restless strain.
The subterranean, electric hum,
Doth mock the bucolic, pastoral sound,
And render every sylvan moment numb,
On desecrated, consecrated ground.
The synthetic, fluorescent gleam at night,
Obscures the constellations from our sight,
And turns the darkness into blinding light,
That burns away the contemplative right.
But in the manufactured, plastic scene,
A human, unextinguished soul is keen.
Sonnet XIX
The idiosyncratic contours of the soul,
Defy the metric and the strict restraint,
And render every structured artifice,
A momentary, fragile, painted feint.
The introspective and recursive quest,
To understand the subterranean mind,
Is but a futile, existential test,
Of all the truth that we are left behind.
For all the psychological conceit,
Is but a fragile and transparent guise,
To hide the truth that’s bitter and is sweet,
Reflected in another’s searching eyes.
The preternatural impulse to explore,
The labyrinthine soul and ask for more
Sonnet
The ancient forest, standing tall and deep,
Doth hold the secrets of a time gone past,
Where silent rivers through the valleys creep,
And whispered tales upon the wind are cast.
The sturdy oak, with branches reaching wide,
A sentinel against the changing sky,
Does in its rings a long forgotten tide,
Of seasons passed, and moments that did fly.
The delicate fern, unfurling in the shade,
A testament to nature's gentle hand,
A verdant carpet, intricately made,
Across the rich and fertile, waiting land.
For in this stillness, lessons we can glean,
From life's enduring and majestic scene.
Sonnet
The vast expanse, where stars like diamonds gleam,
Doth fill the soul with wonder and with awe,
As distant galaxies, a waking dream,
Reveal the universe's grandest law.
The silent void, where light does bravely roam,
Across the eons, reaching for our sight,
A cosmic journey, finding its way home,
Through endless darkness, bathed in radiant light.
The moon, a pearl upon the velvet night,
Reflects the sun, a borrowed, gentle grace,
And guides the wanderer with its soft might,
Across the heavens, finding their true place.
For in this scope, perspective can descend,
On cosmic journeys that will never end.
Sonnet
The city sleeps, beneath a hazy shroud,
Doth hold the dreams of those who dwell inside,
A restless hum, a murmur, not too loud,
Where hopes and fears in hidden corners hide.
The towering spires, reaching for the blue,
A monument to human grand design,
Reflecting back the morning's golden hue,
A blend of metal, concrete, and divine.
The winding streets, a labyrinth of thought,
Where countless lives in parallel unfold,
Each step a story, bought and dearly sought,
In narratives both ancient and untold.
For in this bustling, vibrant, urban space,
The human spirit finds its dwelling place.
Sonnet
The evanescent dreams of fleeting youth,
Doth fade before the mordant, creeping age,
Exposing some unpleasant, painful truth,
Upon a bleak and existential stage.
The retrospective, melancholy gaze,
Observes the opportunities long past,
And wonders at the intricate erase,
Of all the fragile moments built to last.
The phosphorescent flicker of the soul,
Illuminates the vestiges of pride,
And demonstrates the incomplete, not whole,
That all the artifice cannot quite hide.
The introspection, ponderous and deep,
Cannot awaken what it puts to sleep.
Sonnet
The technological, cold, electric sphere,
Doth supersede the analogic grace,
And fills the atmosphere with coded fear,
Upon the sterile, unreflective space.
The human touch is rendered obsolete,
By algorithmic, logical design,
And every interaction is a feat,
Of predetermined, computational line.
The simulacral image of a face,
Replaces genuine, expressive art,
And leaves no palpable, enduring trace,
Of what once was a warm and beating heart.
The digital, synthetic, transient gleam,
Is but a simulacrum of a dream.
Sonnet
The labyrinthine, cognitive expanse,
Doth conjure narratives to understand,
The preternatural and subtle chance,
That governs mortal life across the land.
The teleological, constructed end,
Provides a comfort in a transient plight,
And offers hope that time will not transcend,
The fleeting essence of a transient light.
The esoteric, philosophic view,
Attempts to find a meaning, deep and true,
Beneath the transient and passing hue,
Of every moment, whether old or new.
The human mind, in its extensive quest,
Is but a stranger, putting truth to test
Sonnet
The inexorable currents of the age,
Doth ceaselessly diminish and erode,
The venerated text, the hallowed page,
And supersede the intellectual road.
The algorithmic, informational tide,
Obscures the erudition, hard-won grace,
And leaves the introspective mind to hide,
In some forgotten, unreflective space.
The digital, ephemeral domain,
Precludes the slow, deliberate review,
Of truths that scholars labored to explain,
And renders every argument askew.
The ancient truths, so carefully accrued,
Are in the viral meme, alone, subdued.
Sonnet
The fabricated, simulacral glee,
Doth permeate the artificial air,
And render every genuine decree,
A hollow, transient, and insipid prayer.
The synthetic, fluorescent gleam at night,
Obscures the vibrant, unconditioned soul,
And substitutes a manufactured light,
For something meaningful, and truly whole.
The preternatural impulse to explore,
The labyrinthine depths of inner space,
Is lost amid the manufactured lore,
That promises a fabricated grace.
The conscious self, a curated, polished thing,
Can feel the bitter, hollow echoes ring
Sonnet
The phosphorescent luminescence of the soul,
Doth cast its pallid, unremitting gleam,
Upon the fractured and ephemeral whole,
That represents the existential stream.
The preternatural impulse to explore,
The labyrinthine, cognitive design,
Doth render every superficial lore,
A manufactured, pre-determined line.
The introspective, speculative quest,
To find a hidden, quintessential core,
Is but a futile, intellectual test,
That leaves the weary, searching soul for more.
The cosmic, unforgiving, quiet void,
Is ultimately and completely enjoyed.
Sonnet
The intellectual, ponderous retreat,
Doth manifest in every weary line,
And supersede the bitter and the sweet,
Of every impulse, human and divine.
The supercilious and cold disdain,
For unexamined, popular belief,
Is but an intellectual, certain pain,
That offers little permanent relief.
The logical, exhaustive, structured mind,
Doth deconstruct all beauty into parts,
And leaves the sentimental soul behind,
With all its unsubstantiated arts.
The rationalist, in his sagacious quest,
May lose the beating in his burdened chest.
Sonnet
The technological, cold, synthetic sphere,
Doth supersede the analogic grace,
And fills the atmosphere with coded fear,
Upon the sterile, unreflective space.
The human touch is rendered obsolete,
By algorithmic, logical design,
And every interaction is a feat,
Of predetermined, computational line.
The simulacral image of a face,
Replaces genuine, expressive art,
And leaves no palpable, enduring trace,
Of what once was a warm and beating heart.
The digital, ephemeral, transient gleam,
Is but a simulacrum of a dream
Sonnet
The polysyllabic convolution of the thought,
Doth struggle with the simple, primal need,
For solace, solace that can not be bought,
By any complex intellectual deed.
The cognitive, meandering design,
Escapes the simple, existential pain,
And substitutes the fabricated sign,
For what is lost and will not come again.
The philosophical, extensive search,
Doth wander down a neverending road,
And leaves the spirit stranded in the lurch,
Beneath an unremitting, heavy load.
The human heart, though heavily endowed,
Is still a creature of the simple crowd.
Sonnet
The anachronistic, literary grace,
Doth lose its standing in the modern age,
And finds no permanent, enduring place,
Upon the viral and ephemeral stage.
The measured rhythm, and the classic rhyme,
Are superseded by a hurried plea,
To capture every single fleeting time,
And render it a transient decree.
The intricate and polished, structured line,
Is lost amid the vast cacophony,
Of every unexamined, rash design,
And superficial, loud monotony.
The ancient wisdom, with its heavy tone,
Is left unheard, unheard, and all alone.
Sonnet
The incommunicable anguish of the soul,
Doth manifest in superficial guise,
As deep emotions take an iron toll,
Reflected in the sadness of the eyes.
The introspective and recursive quest,
To find a hidden, quintessential core,
Is but a futile, intellectual test,
That leaves the weary, searching soul for more.
The subterranean, complex design,
Of human motive, tangled and obscure,
Defies the logical and clear confine,
Of every simple, self-professed allure.
The conscious mind, a delicate facade,
Conceals the fears that time has not betrayed.
Sonnet
The preternatural impulse to explore,
The labyrinthine, cognitive expanse,
Doth promise every possible encore,
Of something more than just a passing glance.
The metaphysical and abstract thought,
Doth supersede the analogic grace,
And leaves the mortal, weary mind distraught,
In some forgotten, unreflective space.
The incandescent, spiritual design,
Is lost amid the vast cacophony,
Of every unexamined, rash confine,
And superficial, loud monotony.
The ancient wisdom, with its heavy tone,
Is left unheard, unheard, and all alone.
Sonnet
The ideological, unthinking zeal,
Replaces nuanced, philosophic thought,
And disregards the palpable and real,
With predetermined notions, dearly bought.
The intellectual, ponderous retreat,
Doth leave the fertile soil of discourse bare,
As unexamined fictions, bitter-sweet,
Are cultivated with a subtle care.
The human mind, in its extensive quest,
For certitude within a boundless sea,
Is but a stranger, putting truth to test,
Of mortal limitations, you and me.
For in the knowing, we may find release,
From doubt's insidious, relentless lease.
Sonnet
The manufactured, plastic, transient scene,
Doth captivate the unreflective eye,
And render every genuine decree,
A hollow, artificial, transient sigh.
The artificial, sentimental gleam,
Is but a phosphorescent, fading spark,
That mocks the existential, human dream,
And leaves the spirit wandering in the dark.
The conscious self, a curated, polished thing,
Conceals the primal, subterranean stream,
And listens to the hollow echoes ring,
Of fabricated and unrealized dreams.
The supererogation of the heart,
Doth stand and wait for something to depart.
Sonnet
The inexorable, urban-sprawl extends,
Its cold dominion, concrete and profane,
Where every fabricated street descends,
Into a subterranean, restless strain.
The subterranean, electric hum,
Doth mock the bucolic, pastoral sound,
And render every sylvan moment numb,
On desecrated, consecrated ground.
The fabricated, fluorescent gleam at night,
Obscures the constellations from our sight,
And turns the darkness into blinding light,
That burns away the contemplative right.
But in the silence, one may find a way,
To see the truth that mocks the passing day.
Sonnet
The anachronistic, literary style,
Doth lose its standing in the modern age,
And finds no permanent, enduring while,
Upon the viral and ephemeral stage.
The measured rhythm, and the classic rhyme,
Are superseded by a hurried plea,
To capture every single fleeting time,
And render it a transient decree.
The intricate and polished, structured line,
Is lost amid the vast cacophony,
Of every unexamined, rash design,
And superficial, loud monotony.
The ancient wisdom, with its heavy tone,
Is left unheard, unheard, and all alone.
Sonnet
The incandescent, electronic embrace,
Doth promise every possible abscond
Beyond the wildest dream of technological enthusiasts
in their corporal confines of the time and space,
And solace of standard architecture in a novel shape.
Even recourse to a redress of wanton algorithm
Restrategised the momentum of genuine, expressive art,
And brings the plaintful human story to a good outcome,
The artificial, sentimental gleam,
Is but a hollow, synthetic, transient hue,
That mocks the existential, human dream,
Of all that's genuine and truly true.
The conscious self, a curated, polished thing,
Can feel the bitter, hollow echoes ring
Sonnet
The preternatural impulse to explore,
The labyrinthine depths of inner space,
Is lost amid the manufactured lore,
That promises a fabricated grace.
The idiosyncratic contours of the soul,
Defy the metric and the strict restraint,
And render every structured artifice,
A momentary, fragile, painted feint.
The introspection, ponderous and deep,
Cannot awaken what it puts to sleep.
The human spirit, with its fading light,
Doth struggle to contend against the night.
The manufactured, artificial gleam,
Is but a simulacrum of a dream.
Sonnet
The incommunicable solitude of one,
Doth linger, even in the crowded street,
Beneath the omnipresent, brilliant sun,
And renders every interaction sweet.
The intricate and convoluted thought,
Doth struggle with the simple, primal need,
For solace, solace that can not be bought,
By any complex intellectual deed.
The philosophical, extensive search,
Doth wander down a neverending road,
And leaves the spirit stranded in the lurch,
Beneath an unremitting, heavy load.
The human heart, though heavily endowed,
Is still a creature of the
Sonnet
The technological, cold, electric sphere,
Doth supersede the analogic grace,
And fills the atmosphere with coded fear,
Upon the sterile, unreflective space.
The human touch is rendered obsolete,
By algorithmic, logical design,
And every interaction is a feat,
Of predetermined, computational line.
The simulacral image of a face,
Replaces genuine, expressive art,
And leaves no palpable, enduring trace,
Of what once was a warm and beating heart.
The digital, synthetic, transient gleam,
Is but a simulacrum of a dream.
Sonnet
The anachronistic burden of the mind,
Doth weigh upon the weary spirit’s grace,
As erudition, thoughtfully defined,
Confronts the transient phantoms of this place.
The philosophic dialectics cease,
To grant the soul a genuine accord,
When mortal frailties usurp the peace,
And every fabricated truth’s ignored.
For all the intellectual artifice,
Is but a fragile and transparent shield,
Against the primal, unfeigned emphasis,
That raw, unmitigated grief can wield.
The polysyllabic heart, though eloquent,
Is still by simple, crushing sorrow rent.
Sonnet
The inexorable, gradual decline,
Of every noble and of every good,
Doth mirror all that’s mortal and divine,
That can be ever and be understood.
The fleeting beauty, and the transient joy,
Are but a momentary, fading spark,
That time, with purpose, labors to destroy,
And leave the human spirit in the dark.
The phosphorescent flicker of the soul,
Illuminates the vestiges of pride,
And demonstrates the incomplete, not whole,
That all the artifice cannot quite hide.
The introspection, ponderous and deep,
Cannot awaken what it puts to sleep.
Sonnet
The condescending, intellectual stare,
Doth render every simple act profane,
And promises a momentary care,
That serves to magnify the simple pain.
The critical, exhaustive, weary gaze,
Doth deconstruct all beauty into parts,
And wanders through a neverending maze,
Of unsupported, fabricated arts.
The erudite, but unfeeling mind,
Doth offer little that the soul can learn,
And leaves the human spirit far behind,
To watch the bitter, fading embers burn.
The academic, cold, unfeeling heart,
Doth miss the genuine and vital part.
Sonnet
The cosmic indifference, so profound,
Doth render every human enterprise,
A futile, transient, and forgotten sound,
Beneath the gaze of universal eyes.
Our grand ambitions, our profoundest art,
The delicate construction of our schemes,
Are but a momentary, flickering part,
Of constellations and celestial dreams.
The numinous, a presence felt, not known,
Eludes the verbal and the syllabical,
And leaves the rationalist to stand alone,
Before the truth, that’s anti-logical.
For in the silence, one may find a way,
O to catch a glimpse of the esoteric paradigm of nature
Sonnet
The idiosyncratic, winding path of self,
Doth lead the human spirit far astray,
From all the simple, monumental wealth,
That waits in simple, unadorned display.
The constant, unremitting, inner need,
To understand the intricate design,
Is but an intellectual, fruitless deed,
That serves to magnify the passing time.
The preternatural, restless soul,
Doth wander through a convoluted maze,
And strives to make the disparate pieces whole,
Before the fading of the final days.
For in the complex, one may find a way,
To miss the simple and the enduring day
Sonnet
The indefatigable, rhythmic march of life,
Doth supersede the individual plight,
And silences the existential strife,
Within the constant flow of day and night.
The generations rise, and in their turn,
Succumb to time's relentless, cruel command,
And leave the lessons that they did not learn,
Upon the ever-changing, shifting sand.
The collective memory, a fading gleam,
Doth hold the vestiges of ancient lore,
A ghostly, half-remembered, waking dream,
That whispers of a time that is no more.
The consciousness, a frail, translucent sheet,
Is swept away by time’s relentless feet.
Sonnet
The supernal, vast, and cosmic enterprise,
Doth mock the microscopic, human gaze,
And render every individual wise,
A victim of the universe’s haze.
The philosophical, extensive search,
Doth wander down a neverending road,
And leaves the spirit stranded in the lurch,
Beneath an unremitting, heavy load.
The rationalist, with his sagacious quest,
To find a meaning in the cosmic whole,
May miss the simple beating in his chest,
And lose the purpose of his weary soul.
The ultimate and unforgiving fact,
Is that the universe can not be stacked against it's fate
Sonnet
The subterranean, cognitive decay,
Doth manifest in superficial guise,
As deep convictions, slowly washed away,
Are superseded by a grander prize.
The ideological, unthinking zeal,
Replaces nuanced, philosophic thought,
And disregards the palpable and real,
With predetermined notions, dearly bought.
The intellectual, ponderous retreat,
Doth leave the fertile soil of discourse bare,
As unexamined fictions, bitter-sweet,
Are cultivated with a subtle care.
The mind, unmoored from rational designs,
Consumes the poison hidden in the line
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