Sonnet 342

Within fond dreams of immortality
Where spates of reason may yet interject;
Brief scenes of such abject finality
To shake the very cause of that quaint quest.
Here stands before us fearsome mighty Time,
His rusted sword still dripping with fresh blood;
Defiant, dark, delighting in foul crime,
Bellicose, bleak, belligerent and proud.
What power do we hold against such force?
What heart of flesh could ever make a stand?
Must we now bow as slaves to forgone course?
What action here might stay his cruel hand?
Of leveled sand wherein his joy abides,
Look on stark ruins, yet truth and love survive.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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