Sonnet of Musing

A lonesome soul's awake at three,
While all the rest're in slumber's keep.
Before he lays him down to sleep,
Ponder does he, of mysteries.

Of the ways of the world; its demeanor;
Of how perception seems to turn,
From disasters to the greatest omens,
Into something else much obverse.

Perhaps they are all illusions.
Yes, that is what they are,
For how can they change so much
When there has not been transition?
The ways of the world are such an enigma,
Especially those matters of the heart.