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 - 58. Exactly
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Sonnet No. 115
Attuned to Nature, and to worlds of loss,
One young man's sorrow was consigned to record
Tears from birds – from beast and plants, and even moss –
For Orpheus struck his lyre most lachry-chord.
Then, another young man tossed furniture
Out his bedroom window, so that the poor
Might feel Saint Francis a fellow voyager
In a world whose inequities need uproar.
Thus, Orpheus struck a chord and waited,
And Saint Francis offered a stigmata –
While to both, Nature came safe and sated
To attend their human serenata.
With afflicted palm opened then towards the sky,
I offer song and prayer, and you're the reason why.
Sonnet No. 116
Often it seems sorrow are the lyrics,
Coursing beneath my metres' beating strain –
Slipping; sliding – not able to affix
Scope or compass to my doleful refrain.
But, it's not as if I'm sad, exactly,
No, if anything, it's a deep desire
To feed this sense of joy most compactly
In form to make me its justifier.
These words may now exist because of me,
But the soul that surges through them is you –
Take one away and there's nothing to see,
'Cept the music diffuse making them true.
Not set in time, but measuring out,
My love drums, and about you wants to flout!
_
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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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