Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
One Hundred and Fifty-Five Sonnets - 48. bronze
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Sonnet No. 95
We are only made of matter that dies,
Of bones and marrow; of skull and of brains;
And every thought we had will end in sighs,
As those who bury us mourn our remains.
A Roman mosaic of a skeleton
Shows him toasting fate with pitchers of wine –
His memento mori is a ghastly grin
To remind we toil under a heavy fine.
But, finite as the threat hangs on our head,
Our necks are blessed with freedom, and with choice,
For those who have loved can never be dead,
And their thoughts will ever find living voice.
Horace said monumentum aere perennius,
And meant Love is the bronze tough enough to preserve us.
Sonnet No. 96
The fever may break, but my body's weak –
Racked with fatigue; parched in mouth and spirit;
Thinking in all things I have passed my peak,
If my stubborn will can let me hear it.
Donnie Darko came from Netflix, and now
I have two choices; to watch, or send back.
If that film's darkness I will allow,
Like-cures-like, my sadness it might attack.
No one knows what the day will bring along,
What thoughts or portents we may encounter,
But for this heart, it still carries one song –
And your love inspires its accounter.
Yet fevered of mind, and weak of body,
Your smile predicts my sole recovery.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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