Growth

Growth
So now in the annals of human chagrin
We find some young souls that are wholly confused
They could be of distaff or from sons of men
My point is that losses which have been imbued.
They wince and they chatter as in pain they were
Then proffer their drama for all to behold
For this malady there is not a known cure
And leaves it's receiver left out in the cold.
Rail on! Oh complainer your voice is most loud
You scream from the ramparts your pain in this realm
And then walkabout with your head in a cloud
As if some intelligence was at the helm.
Stick to your fine guns Oh thou keeper of faith
Or else likewise joy disappears like a wraith.

©4/14/2014 by George W. Collett
This my friends is another English Sonnet variant written in 11 syllables per line. It's intent is to make one think. Enjoy!