They say a sonnet takes its cues from love:
the rhythmic beat of hearts that pound in time,
the lilting language lends an image of
two perfect souls in raptured form of rhyme.

They also say this poet’s form is dead
a limp and limping verse for ages past
but for Spenser, Shakespeare, all is lead
replacing gold as alchemist’s repast.

Nostalgia is the need to nurture need;
and inspiration finds its muses fresh
in state, a poison apple still can feed
a hollow chest, and words can minds enmesh.

Though fantasies and faerie stories thrill
A sonnet’s ancient form enthralls the will

Time is balm and medicine, they say,

for blood let by each misadventured heart.

And memories remembered fade away

that few can in nostalgia find their art.

So, too, cold reason could I let destroy

what sweet imaginings have crept within

my mind to make of you that queen of Troy.

Could silence music ere it can begin.

But sad strains stir the soul from where it sits,

stagnating slave to sense, to care and toil.

Though wisdom cautions me against these fits,

from any else, the wisest must recoil.

If under such strong storms I tread alone,

Then thunder thoughts to dust, turn heart to stone.