The Ides of March
The Ides of March, cruel fate’s Spring Cleaning Day,
when solid walls collapsed around his head:
The day his trusted friends left him for dead.
Once mighty kingdoms fall, dreams burn today.
Bull market's passed; today bears rule the fray.
Before the Reaper, the strongest bow their head.
What is Mount Everest's fate? A hill, eroded.
The world's crown runs as silt into the bay.
Soft Yin Chi hides its sharp teeth, bloody horns,
‘Ere Vishnu builds, Shiva must do his worst.
Before a sowing comes the field's demise.
And sunlight passes black before each morn.
In every blessing, this implicit curse,
as naught can grow if nothing ever dies.
3/15/16, revised 10/6/24
Italian/Petrarchean Sonnet
abbaabba cdecde
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
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