Sonnet XXII: A Manner not so Fickle
©March 17th 2020, Olan L. Smith
The plague is come for you, this is the night,
And you will die with wind upon your back,
The horror rakes the flesh, a hollow flight
To hide your throes of pain; they come to hack
Your head so cleanly off its royal perch,
Alas the curse of nine comes down its slide
A wobbly head roles till its basket's lurch
Then who should gather scattered parts? Oblige
The crown this night, a holy man does hope
That right does rule a strong and hopeful realm
Who begs for life will fines her end a rope,
And still your time is not forgot. The helm
Is firm this day and all that's left, a trickle
Of blood rushes out, by means not so fickle.
YOU ARE READING
Sonnets Written by Olan L. Smith
PoetryI am moving many of my singly published poems into collections, and in this collection will reside all my sonnets I have written, and will write in the future--I hope you enjoy. Love, peace, and freedom, Olan L. Smith aka Cotton Jones. (Cover credit...
