SONNET 116

Let us not pretend marriage equals love.
Admit intelligence, understand this.
For much like a hand that fits a suade glove,
Real love transcends the status quo abyss:
Oh yes! It does not wither with time
That kills those that fake in marriage relations;
Its resonant ring for every bell that chimes,
This melody en masse trounces stagnation.
Love’s not prevalent in the public eye
Where much irreparable harm is done:
It flourishes underneath the starry sky,
Enduring every catastrophe which comes.
If in error one is proved otherwise,
Question the source first, maybe it’s a lie.