It is a sonnet today, why oh why,
Magnificent in its melodic form.
Five feet of iambs, it is not a lie,
Fourteen in all, a rigid rhyme the norm.
Today I have no time such verse to write
It takes long stretches, ample time in hand,
Such beauty crafted in eternal light,
Not in the dull wasteland where now I stand.
Mundane, the word that drags the poet down.
Though sonnets fly high on softened breath.
The day-to-day rigors in which I drown
My sonnets they take away unto death.
I tried my best with a free heart to bring
A sonnet on sonnets with grace to sing.
Lgloyd (c) 2016