“The Poet”

a sonnet... sort of

Thou art a weaver of words, my poet,

But thy charm of old hath faded of late,

And thy candle burns cold, no longer lit.

Words of no meaning occupy thy slate.

Thy air of wisdom hath been swept away.

And yet time when thy words had owned my mind,

When all deep set fears thy smile would allay,

Though ignorant bliss, I would soon find,

Still live on as a testament of my youth.

To play with fire without fear of burn,

To hear thy sweet deceits and think them truth,

Was a deadly dream, as I now must learn.

Thought of when I knew not thy false ways

Set bleak before me these brighter days.

--end--

Author's Note: This is the first poem I ever wrote. It was supposed to be a sonnet, but, unfortunately, I did not yet understand fully how to write in iambic pentameter. What resulted was this strange, deformed sonnet written in what I now like to call "sporadic pentameter." However, meter aside, I am very fond of this poem and did not have the heart to change it. So, please do review! And if you want to be a very good friend, you could go read some of my other works. I like to think that they improved as I went along...

Toodles!