From Wisdom Born, Decades Fighting Fate's Cursed Hand

From Wisdom Born, Decades Fighting Fate's Cursed Hand In youth, a young lad roars for much needed applause in old age, wisely remains silent with just cause, seeing the end near, some shed bitterest of tears thinking such splashing supplications, angels hear; whereas this old, callous world neither sees nor cares what sorrow one displays or how much heart one shares for savage the measure world uses to reward dying lover or a talented, humble bard. On pages offering up their softest virgin whites are invisible castles beyond mortal sights, each one begging for its wailing walls to withstand massive cannon shots or a victor's crushing hand! Poets, be they young or old, should a full pen hold true to life, as spilling of ink- its treasures accrues! Robert J. Lindley, 1-01-2020 Sonnet, ( Why All We Think We See, May Be An Illusion ) ( So Spoke The Raven, After Master Poe Demanded Silence ) Syllables Per Line:0 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 0 12 12 12 12 0 12 12 Total # Syllables::168 Total # Words:::::120 Note: Muse demanded I write this second poem on this first day and it be dark. Raven agreed and Master Poe abstained. Paper sang a blackened tune and pen danced a raging jig as evil clouds rumbled while gathering in the far west echoes drifted through broken window, and Hades jingled a billion unbreakable chains. A older and wiser poet yielded to avoid the usual headaches and aching pains!