wb :

my goodness, it's been a while. and i have this huge backlog i never got around to posting -_-;;;

but here's sonnet 20, for starters. i'll hopefully be posting one new one everyday until i clear the list.

-~-

they say that i have wondrous skill with words,
but i say they are wrong who think it so;
for lyric from a writer's pen should flow
but i, with rough axe hew mine out of stone.
for rhymes and meters, all cannot express
the fount of feeling in its flown excess,
but faintly on the readers' hearts impress
the origin of love the writer heard.

as when i sing, i do but imitate
so when i write, my words are only shades
of that which in my heart is luminate,
and all these penned are but stone statues made;

for soul is living, but my words are dead;
while words endure, such passion someday fades.

Labels: poetry