Sonnet 428

The passing of a year exalted thus,
A death rejoiced, in merriment proclaimed
As if a dreaded tyrant fallen was,
By his demise a celebration named.
So are we now declaring Time undone,
As though in joy his reckless onslaught cease;
Another circuit ‘round that haughty sun,
How many transits bring life to its’ knees?
Wherein lies hope within this revelry
When every passing year brings much the same?
And though we dream of providence to see,
Of equal stake, damnation there to claim:
Yet good or bad, whatever comes to pass,
On thoughts of you, I’ll ever raise a glass.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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