The Cyclical Cynic (Petrarchan Sonnet)

Aloud and full commanding came the plea

to right the wrongs which passing days allowed,

and any who would not attend the crowd

deemed obstinate, with fervent pitch decree.

To change would serve ill omen, to the free.

To stay the same must never be allowed!

So rough and deep division lines get plowed

(obscuring path of compromise to see).

What then will come if one or other crowned

as victor? Methods meant to halt the kill?

Will heaven look with favor on the deed?

Or might, despite some best attempts to drown

out sorrow’s pool (of which we’ve had our fill)

the curse continue, while the blameless bleed?