To Solitude

a satirical and cynical sonnet

 

I may not know if Love may lead to madness,

For he who madness bears is ignorant

Of if he thinks in sanity and soundness

Or maddened thoughts in this deceive him verdant.

 

I may not validate th’ verisimilitude

Of this common claim to Love’s duplicity

For I stand a subjugated subject to Solitude,

In Love with oneness, unknowing th’ veracity.

 

Perhaps I may be mad to say I’m mad

Or mad to be in love with Loneliness;

Perhaps it’s Love himself that drives me mad

Or merely Solitude too much for wits.

 

I cannot say if love to madness moves;

I only know that madness leads to love.

The Dread of Something

‘Twas on the first forsaken hour

Of morning bleak, I dare say black

‘Twas then that thought’s mistaken powers

Were false imputed things they lack.

Those memories of joy avail

Of darkness, in this task they fail.

Remembrances of rising rays—

Radiant—but provoke the pains.

 

For soon I’ll see those rising rays

Peeking o’er the terrene bend,

And the sun who serves for sizing days

Will measure out this day’s vain end.

Alone I sit without a friend,

With vainly verse profanely penned,

Cursing dawn and dusk as sleep,

My absent ally, awake me keeps.

 

Alas, for even she comes not—

In her I’m also friendship wanting.

Her wanton ways leave me unwrought

With me my heinous horrors haunting,

Through drably clad and shaded night

I hag-like sleep engage in plight.

Men’s mild minds she’ll lay in haze,

But thought her ghost—not pain—it lays.

 

Older days do I remember

When wife with placid wit would with me

Set at naught these nights in November

And set us from all nightmare’s pith free.

Then horrid, wretched sleep did absent

From her profligate comportment

Abandoned—she took on sweeter guise

That did not demise the demonized.

 

That sweeter sleep knew not this hubris,

Immoderate behavior.

No priest can profligate the new miss

Who by her absence makes minds crave her.

And oft she lies upon a man

To abdicate her evil—her plan—

To pass it to that victim’s mind

And fill him with foul dreams of ill kind.

 

But thoughts of old keep me awake,

In wakeful dreams they tell the tales

Of brighter days that yet betake

My heart to darker hellish wails.

That demoness’ demise, it haunts me!

Those visions that she brings, they daunt me!

O how I wish I never knew her!

How I long for the Lethy cure!

 

But sleep, most welcome sleep, will come

And all my corporeal creature still.

My dolor’s demise, my dreams undone—

This my soul shall with the cure fill.

And so I lie awake awaiting

That one wench, the other dreading.

Come most welcome sleep, my friend,

And take me o’er the radiant bend.