Sonnet: Consolation

The body moves us through our numbered days
A bark born forth as random winds may blow
Adventures, misadventures mark our ways
And years attend our course as fortunes go
The heart, an innocent of kindly will,
And prey to all that envy sacred whole
Will lie exposed to every worldly ill,
Susceptible to any poisoned soul.
The mind for this consumes itself in blame
Diminishing its essence as it feeds
Despairing in its self-deceptive shame
Till truest consolation intercedes:
        Presiding over every dark travail,
        The core, embracing all, sees all prevail.

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