More Shakespeare's Sonnets
By Fox-Trot-9

Sonnet 2: The Poet
(To the Reader 1)

With Death and Time and Fate, the perfect three
Who make the world a stage and every soul
A lone and shifting player, I agree
That I (ere long) must play a final role.
Perchance it be the comic type, replete
With slights and slips and blunders gayly sprung;
Perchance the tender sort for stories sweet,
With wooing swains and sonnets sweetly sung;
Perchance a tragic strain, a fall from grace,
Of heroes faulted blind by hapless Fate,
Who strive to win and die in sad disgrace,
Of hope denied and love consumed in hate:
       But, reader, know that mine is not so plain,
       For I'll portray them all, the sweet and pain.

(To be continued...)

A/N: I'm back! I feel like a stranger here, though, because I haven't had time to come over here lately, but I hope that'll change soon. But not to worry; I've been writing in my absence, and I plan to post another anthology of poems hopefully this week. Wish me luck.