Sonnet 22

Why should we fret when fate has cast our lives
And meted out our mirth and misery?
Hope’s smile is often but a trite disguise
That beckons to a forgone destiny.
And time is oft the piper marching on;
Each foolish ear but hears a different tune,
And yesterday’s tomorrow come and gone;
The brightest star at dawning meets its doom.
Yet with uncertainty where springs fond hope
That guides the heart and hand of broken men?
What drags the sluggard to his humble work,
Or bids the moiler fortune to contend?
What beacon burns within a wretched life
That eggs it onward through relentless strife?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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