Poll: Shall I compare thee with a Summers Day ?
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View poll results: Shall I compare thee with a Summers Day ?
Red
4 44%
Blue
1 11%
Green
5 56%
Purple
4 44%
Voters: 9.
#1
4 Days. Multi Vote. Don't vote for your own; don't vote for all four. Good Luck.


A curse to which we bare upon our soul,
existed once to serve a purpose lost,
and though I dare not face it as a whole,
we take or leave it though there is a cost.

Till fields still filled with slag and twisted steal,
the gentle work of these mechanic times,
like storming of the pris'ners to Bastille,
unconscious repercussions of their crimes.

And though our minds are now one with machines,
identify not what we once had been
our glazing eyes must watch this wretched scene,
not following our cultures downward spin,

still striving for what seems to fit us best,
just working further toward eternal rest.



If I had known then what I do know now
Then certainly I would have known a lot
Compared to what you hid but then allowed;
Too late I heard it, so I soon forgot.
I did not care which two were hand in hand,
Which two were closer than the babe and womb,
It matters not to me who's in who's land
Or how they pair off every bride and groom.
I would have seen the sky before it hit;
Before the wind began to blow the storm,
I would have seen your teeth between the bit
Knew everything you'd heard, was to forewarn.
A rise in tides, the crush and then the draw;
Each word the breaking waves slapping my jaw.



The Honey Pot Eludes the Bear

When a bagful of bones shatters and breaks
it sounds like a honey pot pawed with intent.
She was untouchable, they cried, a fake
hope strung out on a tree with branches bent.
That great, lumbering bear sat below through
day and through night, with soft, glistening eyes.
How he would cry ‘oh, my amore’ with two
clumsy hands stretched out like wings towards the sky.
But one day that tortured gaze hardened
and that great, lumbering bear climbed a tree
trunk so wide and so tall that they bargained;
‘oh, he surely must fall!’. So he drew his knees,
clenched his teeth, swung out on that slender limb -
oh, and how the cold ground rushed towards him!



Untitled

Once upon a time there was a Father
Who by seven wives had seven sons.
Each one had a wife and seven daughters.
All together they weighed several tons…

“Not another piece of propagation!,
Said young Billy, sick of n-factorials.
Can’t they stick to ice cream combinations?
Or at least a husband with some morals?

But alas, I better get to counting.
One…Eight… …seven… Wait! Each had a wife?!?
…Seventy and one is their amounting.
Now I can get on with my own life.”

Tragically, he read not the whole question.
He was s’posed to pedigree depression
#2
props to all four of them, specially the last two. The sonnet is a difficult form and I think you all pulled it off very well without slipping into a "shakespearean tounge".

So, and *voted*