I’m told that I’m much too cynical for my age.

[Unsound]

a sonnet.

have we become the brood of the abhor?
seeing as blind mock the deaf in passing.
nothing of sight among the beggars more,
to give be weak, so keep for the lasting;
rage prolonged in length to the fresh in flesh
since Death no more sings for the old and frail.
swallow up the wine ringed out from the mesh,
drink cheers to the Reaper who tends the sail;
let not the thoughts of dejected stand fast.
strengthen our heals, under let them lay waste.
it is the decree taught by failing past,
on the Devil grins at our wayward haste;

if, then, we find means to sufferings end
we sneer, hoping our wounds will never mend.