A Petrarchan sonnet with of course an octave and a couplet with yet a different theme and different rhythmic pattern.
Our world is indeed torn betwixt what they feel and what they know but love is synonymous to the wind one whose current is tidal but then, she never hurts but loves.
Dangerous is wind, soothing can he be
I shouldst speak of thee, vicious, malicious
Thou can mask as a villain, ferocious
But no, thou can't be these who wreaks these deeds
Calm, kind, meek, art thou, I know thee indeed
Sometimes the river, sometimes discourteous
Thy rage seeks honour, dance ye religious
Free is she the wind, he cannot be seen
Show forth thyself true, one without hatred
Wrapped in innocence, displayed in actions
Words cannot suffice, she indeed catered
Ingenuity isn't old fashion
Inscrutable art thou, I speak concerned
Love is mysterious yet champions