Sonnet VI: Scribo Ergo Sum

The essential of being is essential to be,
The absence thereof is a nuisance to bear.
Like fish in a stream knows not of its destiny,
And spends the eternity in idle affair.

To leave the print upon the parchment of time,
Is thus a noble venture to undertake.
For no one is born worthless and grime,
And everyone has a colossal in make.

But to waste time in overthinking is absurd,
To fear the worst, or to regret the loss.
To transcend thinking is thus more preferred,
To repeat the thoughts in verse is just cause.

         For Writing is the true release of the soul, O Novice.
         Bound thy words in the eternal memory of ages.

Sonnet IV: Honesty in Men is a Humourous Thing

Honesty in men is a humourous thing,
it divulges all, and leaves no mystery.
Honesty in poet is a dangerous thing,
it breaks the illusion of lexical sorcery.

Take for instance, the magician's trade.
Amazes the audience, aims to impress,
it demands precision, practice and grace.
Yet fails if not appear effortless.

And if perchance the beans are spilled,
Not worry but take pride in knowledge.
That your work, like a recluse hermit,
came back to aid the human lineage. 

Thus tis advise to conceal the art, O Novice
Let the trained eye trace it and gain eternal bliss. 

Sonnet III: Should simple things be done sans reflection

Should simple things be done sans reflection,
or poured on 'til they appear crumpled.
Should vexed matters be left in dejection,
or done hurriedly in a state o' rumpled.

Months pass sans matter, Matter passes too,
soon forgotten in the gyre of memory.
till an idle Tuesday night brings it anew,
The musings of mind vanquish the drudgery.

The eternal spring looses upon the mind,
It baths itself in ancient words and new.
Thus poetry is blessed upon man-kind,
The words spread like rays and debut.

For tis true ,no poetry springs from a moment,

but collects itself in a natural catchment.

A Pen resting upon paper

Sonnet V: O Scholar Glaucon

O Scholar Glaucon, hear my words,
As they appear before thine eyes,
Poetry's a manipulative maid,
And Poet a master of disguise.

But let her make thine defense heard,
Prove thine worth in society great,
But not by herself, this be absurd,
Let her choose thine own advocate.

Then only judge the place of Poet,
In the Great Kallipolis,
Amongst Philosophers and Doctors' trade,
And Soldiers of the finest breed.

       For not let be emotions stirred up in vain,
       And if stirred, let them achieve a higher plane.

Sonnet II: Often the mind reflect upon mundane

Often the mind reflect upon mundane,
and think which act precedes the other?
Is writing without reading a nature's arraign?
Or reading sans writing a sap-head's error. 

Behold the task of writing for instance,
A poet's soul dances upon ivory sheet. 
Never done in void, nor in abundance,
Art of mere mimicry,'tis art neat. 

Reading too, is an art splendid,O hear,
Absorbing ancient words, through sight,
But read too much, and you'll fear,
of losing your genuine thought's flight. 

So Read in one clock, and create in another, O bard
For 'tis the only glorious and golden path. 

Sonnet I: No macabre account of disease-ridden lovers

No macabre account of disease-ridden lovers, 
Nor of their sad, untimely demise,
Where one or the other is left to suffer,
And sobbing is sole fate of eyes. 

No triumph-tale of a bourgeois financer,
No 'one idea can change the world',
No narratives of celebrity cancer,
and their journey unfurled.

Oh bring me back the verse of bard,
Or chronicles of the things bygone,
Of myths, monsters and magnitude canard,
And laments for the poor Adon.

For as long as these tales will be uttered,
The eternal joy in mind cannot be altered.