Soft Chord - 0249 - after William Shakespeare Sonnet LXXI

If you, perchance, should glance upon this verse
discarding chance to dance behind dark veil,
force no false thought, distraught remorse rehearse,
advance to Time that which beneath his flail
best soonest were ingathered. What avail?
When flowers fade, few fill a pauper's purse
for souvenirs that shatter once we fail.
White Winter's chill will into dust disperse
shrunk, shrivelled sepals sere upon stormed stem.
Yet should soft chord be struck to intersperse
regrets with yearning, far from stratagem,
then could two spirits share, commune, converse...
Rhymed toxin tocsin sings no angel's wings,
no gilded lily brings to stem Time's stings.

(17 January 2007)

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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