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
Prompt: Unknown