Mot

We are but dust motes swirling, gyrating
upon this eternally shifting stage
of ashes, twirling smoke that slowly ages.
Life: ceaseless metronome, ne’er abating
though, in silken moments, patient appearing.
Dust to dust, thus whispers the ancient sage,
penning spidering letters on crumbling page
wisdom drunk, frame deteriorating
as he, like us, dust mote swirling, fading.
But let us not think such things, as we write
poetry of conjectural thought, wading
through this musical score named life: a plight,
a time, a dance of guesswork pervading

13 of 100

This sonnet was inspired by a friend’s poem called ‘Syzygy’. I’ve recently been listening to Nightwish’s The Greatest Show on Earth so that could, very easily, be an inspiration. However, I couldn’t write a sonnet that refers to life being a stage without a mention to one of the world’s greatest wordsmiths: Shakespeare. His ‘7 ages of man’ being beautifully and powerfully read out by Benedict Cumberbatch.

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