(Baroque Sonnet.)
In passing by strange homes, well darkened by the night,
I fell a-wondering… whom or what lies inside?
Would ever I and these others one day collide?
Yet, I know the curious path is seldom right.
Still, the mind tends to wander over unknown plains…
Left alone, one imagines all manner of things;
They could be paupers, merchants, thieves or hidden kings,
Having natural sorrows, great joys, trials and pains
Like myself and my own kindred, cherishing life.
Or, they could be monsters, wielding naught but ill strife.
Uncertainty alone quelled further questions cold.
Better to bend my active thoughts inward than out;
To wonder about things with less fancy, more clout.
For, the notion of living content is not old.
