Sonnet XXII: A Manner not so Fickle

©March 17th, 2020. Olan L. Smith

The plague is come for you, this is the night,

And you will die with wind upon your back,

The horror rakes the flesh, a hollow flight

To hide your throes of pain, they come to hack

Your head so cleanly off its royal perch,

Alas, the curse of nine comes down the slide

A head will roll until the basket's lurch.

Then, who should gather scattered parts? Oblige

The crown this night, a holy man does hope

That right does rule a strong and hopeful realm

Who begs for life will find her end a rope,

And still your time is not forgot. The helm

     Is firm this day and all that's left, a trickle

     Of blood that rushes out, by means so fickle.