The Wrinkle

A Shakespearian sonnet

The Wrinkle

About that deep crease upon my plain brow,
Cast firm and centred amongst the smooth,
Tells not of a painful, amorous tale,
Nor of happy misspent youth does it prove.

The crack about my eye owed not to mirth,
Nor the shaded gazing of foreign suns.
My forfeit to Time’s sickle be not worth
The grains I squandered while reaping none.

Alas, my hatred would not be so deep
could the cause of the wretched line be known,
If it were a token, I would not weep
For love never found and time almost gone.

Thus, when age is showing and youth is lost,
That your lines be worth nought will hurt the most.