I wonder often why Shakespeare did write

I wonder often why Shakespeare did write

Those hundred fifty-four love sonnets dear

For whom he meant each one inspired delight

For whom each one was meant remains unclear

Enamoring all those poems instinctive dreamed

Of golden youth’s renown he would ensure

Of women dark, fair, pretty, or less deemed

Of age’s contrasts and swift time’s inure

If Shakespeare’s pen were put to paper here

To whom would he eternal fame impart

Creations sung so exquisite to hear

Achievements sung to stop life’s deathly march

For all encountered loves now saved from time

He did enshrine forever with his rhyme