Shall I compare thee to a summer's day
Thou art more lovely and more temperate....
So begins Shakespeare's Sonnet 18,one of the loveliest pices of poetry,at least in the English language.I usually read it with great pleasure,lost in the melliflous,meandering mass of words.But recently,I discovered the fact that a single piece of poetry can strike you differently in different moods.
A few days ago,while in a particularly foul mood,i read the above sonnet,picked up pen and paper,and composed one of my own.Technically,it could be called a sonnet,but only technically...
An empty breeze,a scentless limpid breeze
A mere nothingness,a limitless vaccuum.
From whence arrived,a' sailing 'cross the seas
The caravans of your sublime perfume.
Where once you walked,the wretched raven crows
Time scurries by,where once it stood so still.
Throughout my heart, a silent tempest blows
A sudden void,no sign of life ,no thrill.
But no regrets,I find no sense of shame
No weary sigh,no frown can mar my smile.
When through my heart,it flutters by; your name
Does bring some pain,but only for a while.
A life of loss,a weary state of mind
No other friend could give a gift so kind.
Pretty horrid,innit??
Just another endeavour towards spreading soul searing poetry(read mind numbing bilge) on the internet.
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