More Die Starved of Love
The unkindest of human dread
That hits men 'pon this heart-less earth,
Not of flesh made nor is blood red—
But being left to live in dearth.
Faults of flesh can well be treated,
If not cured, alleviated,
But man no hospital has made
To cure the pain of loneliness,
Nor has medicines invented
For despair, nor for hopelessness,
Many a man has died for bread—
For a mere morsel, roof above,
Jaundiced when get heads, hearts jaded,
More die starved for mere scraps of love.
_______________________________________________
This sonnet has tetrachords instead of the usual pentameter.
The lines are iambic as usual.
Sonnets | 07.12.08 |
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