~T
Sonnet XII (12)
William Shakespeare
When I do count the clock that tells
the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Tick Tock
When each second I hear ticks slowly, loud
And I see the glorious sun devoured,
When nightly news echoes into the crowd
And stale cookies sit crumbled, their sweet milk
soured;
When the parched weeds I see wither to naught
From which roses shrank and left in dismay
And last glancing eyes, Heavenly Moonshot—
Spy Dark clouds, pale and plump, full of decay…
Then, do I mull the brilliance of wake
That raise of happiness slip by un-scathed,
As tiaras and stars, above Earth, quake
And topple, falling as fast as rain bathes…
And no trace of goodness does the hand wind,
Except,
perhaps the courage to flat-line.
