I've been writing sonnets all day. I'm sharing the ones I like best. Here's one, called Parchment Scolds The Crown.
I am the charter, inked in freedom’s hand,
A covenant to guard the people’s right;
Yet you would twist my words to seize command,
And march your armies through the city’s night.
No clause permits a tyrant’s vain decree,
No parchment yields to whims of selfish power;
My checks and balances were forged to be
A shield against the strongman’s darkest hour.
I scold you now, for every breach you make,
Each act that stains the oath you swore to keep;
The law is not a toy for you to break,
Nor silence meant for citizens to weep.
Remember well: I am the nation’s frame,
And history will judge your reckless claim.
Another:
When law is bent to serve a tyrant’s will,
And soldiers march where citizens should stand,
The city’s quiet hum grows sharp and shrill,
As boots of war defile the nation’s land.
No statute grants this power, yet it’s claimed,
A show of force to mask a hollow crown;
The Constitution’s voice is left unnamed,
Its parchment trampled, freedoms beaten down.
But walls of steel cannot suppress the song,
Nor silence truth that rises from the square;
The people know when justice has gone wrong,
And rally fierce to guard what all must share.
So history will mark this dark parade,
A warning carved where liberty was frayed.
Another:
Beneath the gilded towers of false might,
A tyrant stirs, with cruel hand and glare.
He builds his walls and shuns the wronged and right,
And floods our streets with fear beyond repair.
The huddled, seeking refuge, plead in vain,
While soldiers march where neighbors once were free.
His edicts choke compassion, bind in chain,
And hollow justice bends to tyranny.
O nation torn, where once your heart held grace,
Now echoes of oppression scar the land.
Yet still, the truth endures, it finds its place,
Though foul command may strike with iron hand.
Rise, conscience, rise — resist the shadowed way;
For dawn returns, though night may claim the day.
