Sonnet 2

Boredom, cruel spirit of our time, you pray

on the cold, tainted souls of young and old.

What kind of god are you? Must we obey

your will’s command, your dark intents? Behold

the freedom of my soul, behold the minds

that blossom in the shadow of your might.

In spite of your control we’ll grow, strong winds

will spread the seed of new ideas. Ov’rnight

you’ll see your power flicker, turn to dust,

you’ll see the dull and jaded, starting new.

And then, at last, vain boredom, you’ll combust

and from your ashes life will rise anew.

Who gave you so great power, mighty lord?

Doesn’t matter. In your death we’ll be restored.