Friday, July 30, 2010

In Which I Attempt a Sonnet

Ribon of ink, a soul's entrails
left from the dead, a story tells
A truth, a lie, a sentament forgotten
A word, a spell, world I am lost in
Incantation from long ago
Bound inside a rhyme I know
World held still with thoughts repeated
World spun on with life unheeded
Mangled mind unraveled with sore eyes
A scholar watches, stricked as he spies
A life lived and then discarded
Poet's words scrawled on empty space
What has a thousand times been said
He writes again for future eyes to trace

1 comment:

  1. Hey! I really like this!
    Sonnets totally befuddle me. I can't write them, so I'm always impressed by those that do.