What Sort Is He,Bitter Or Sweet....
What sort is He,bitter or sweet to say
Pastime painter in dark and fair so bright
Alltime sadist by nature He His play
Pain or pleasure He seems be His pretext..
Ruing so dark a woman black she hued
Blighted a leaf as withers she shrivels
This day even ahead on stairs cultured
Accursed,a bad society she feels
And look,laughing pride yet another one
Glowing outside fair with conceit inside
This day that all wish for union one
Dispairs her fair skin dark on rungs down slide
Writhing in mind a worm hunting His sort
In vain blaming,praising,admits His sport
It is He only who plays all the shots in our life...we are just the playthings...beautifully written sonnet on philosophic lines