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.