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 |