Whatsup Flowers

Man in perpetual search for a pal-ship, Loves courtship of crowd, nor yet living ‘lone— That a tailwind, no whirlwind powers his whip, And a good friend from not is seldom known— A pal whose lap a good pillow can make, Upon whose shoulders a few tears be shed, To sail a ship as if in tranquil lake To goals in sun a friend that renders shade. Yet, amidst friends flooding one's life today, Good weather chums, buddies of weather vile, And those that hide-and-seek in friendship play— Of type dime a dross daily that we pile; If fragrance whatso WHATSUP buds can't reap, How'd they ever blossom any friendship? ___________________________________________________ Sonnets | 7.10.2017 |