The Weight of Ages: Modern Sonnets - страница 3

But ever present, shining bright and true.

So, let the seasons run their changing race,

My love for you shall ever be anew.

For, you possess a beauty I adore,

That blossoms brighter than before.

My blessing star, through shadows you appear,

A steady hand when I am lost and weak,

A voice of reason, calming every fear,

A silent comfort that I often seek.

In laughter shared, and tears that freely fall,

Our bond is forged, a treasure to behold.

You lift me up when I begin to stall,

A story whispered, centuries old.

No greater gift than friendship's gentle grace,

A loyal heart, a spirit pure and bright.

You paint a smile upon my weary face,

And fill my days with warmth and hopeful light.

So, thank you, friend, for all you are to me,

Eternally grateful, I will always be.

The screen a mirror, but reflecting dread,

A constant stream of horrors, stark and grim,

Each headline screaming words that fill the head

With shadows dancing on the hopeful hymn.

The news, once meant to guide and to inform,

Now breeds a sickness, creeping in the soul,

Distorting truths and weathering the storm

Of doubt and fear that takes its cruel control.

We build our walls, defensive and withdrawn,

Suspecting neighbours, questioning each face,

The bitter seeds of paranoia sown,

Eroding empathy, displacing grace.

Oh, media's power, use it with such care,

Lest darkness claim us, trapped in our despair.

The traveller seeks solace in new lands,

A change of scene, a different sky above,

He hopes to bury pain in shifting sands,

And leave behind the echoes of lost love.

He builds a life, a fortress made of stone,

Where worries dare not trespass or intrude,

Yet, in the quiet hours, when he's alone,

The phantom of the past still taunts his mood.

For, though he runs to mountains, sea, or shore,

And changes names and faces in the crowd,

He carries still the burden at his core,

A troubled soul, within a silent shroud.

Thus, flight is vain, a temporary ease,

For, self remains, the captive of unease.

The gears now turn, not by a craftsman's hand,

But coded lines, a logic cold and clean.

Machines ascend, and at their stark command,

The tedious tasks, the drudgeries, unseen.

But as we yield the burdens to the byte,

And algorithms sculpt our daily bread,