a sonnet

By and by we find ourselves afraid
of losing that with which we contemplate:
our mind, our form, our soul, our self, our shade
So easily set free with time and fate
We are the gale that crashes to the rough
Distressed that our opus dissolves beneath
We are afraid our time is not enough
to breathe our breath through lustrous tempest teeth
From technicolor hues to black and white
Our minds do wilt as herbs do in the sun;
Why is that what we fear what we not bite,
For our mind's end we wish not know undone.
     We must exist as though we have none left
     If time is of the essence, then time bereft

a shakespearean sonnet (capitalized and everything!!) for my romantic poetry unit at school (+ a new-ish video that i thought kind of embodied the sound of the poem).

have a lovely thursday, everyone