“Jesters do oft prove prophets.”
― William Shakespeare, King Lear
Should I a jest upon our nature make
and slight the finer aspects of our love
a cad more I should be. A goof for sake
of laughter’s compensation. O, above
all else I’d be a fool who lives for wit,
cavorts across the stage’d heart — who sees
an open door for quip — be swept in it;
but laughing hard I’d lose your love. No pleas
my honor would restore, nor passions fire.
Away I would see my dearest depart
to never return, all love would expire.
And fool I’d be, a jester sans a heart.
Then thus I here now take a pledge, for true.
No jest will come between my lips — and you.
* * *
No prompt. No challenge. I just felt the desire to attempt wrestling the bears — Sonnet form and Iambic Pentameter.