Sunday, December 27, 2015

For Posterity (Sonnet XII)

Of late, I may be found in solitude,
The isolated prison of my mind,
As all my friends and family are eschewed,
in vain attempts to sit back and unwind.

I wonder if there's meaning in our lives,
or if the struggle here is all there is.
And, though I know that none, who lives, survives,
I cannot help but wonder why that is.

I wonder if this tree will bear no fruit;
That all my pondering has been a waste;
That all man's ancient rhetoric is moot;
That as I rot, my life shall be erased.

For, if that's so, then I shall let it be,
And labor, then, to build my legacy.

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