PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY- PART 11

O that kismet forbideth thee to dubiety's circumvent, Not to hang limpidly to its atrophy but unearth thee of poltroon purgatory encrust, That frothy,ungraceful limbo of arts,that made thee its first slave, Still in purblind,a purloin of one's own grandest gemstone for a lopsided modus viviendi, That gem at your consort cannot control, O time art he thee imprisoned and mayest not free thee,That it be in your rainment,of rains and sun, And charter groans against drowning shores, O that rancour that ransacks in a rankle , O time thy gem ,art fled thee lustre ,when thou art imprisoned in thy willpower,The price of liberty o poltroon,thraldom which impounds behind gaol,afford thee not,to pay, O time's a sagacious sailor,ride thee rot a sainthood a good sailor,That thou mayest not bat a heavy eyelids tis the weary wight unwelcomed, But now maketh a harlot of verity a mischievious who sails the winds,the unsteady ship in nefarious oceans.