Wandering Tail Sonnet Speaking about Itself


Wandering Tail Sonnet speaking about Itself

Oh, if I were a proper sonnet, true,
In fourteen lines, I'd capture my essence,
And find myself in grand magnificence.
Instead, I lie in bed, inspite of hue;

The lines and words would be completely new,
But now, the letters hang in transcendence,
And ornate curls of phrases build a fence,
They push me as my wisdom I accrue.

I must be swept around myself and cry,
Twisting and spinning all my thoughts in pants,
Always smile softly, even slightly shy,

The many questions in me surge and swell,
Crooked thoughts slip slowly, and between the slants,
On walls, they weave around the linen well.

I wish me pure, a proper sonnet. Tell
Myself in fourteen lines, as my essence:
I fly to my begin as consequence.

Oben Unten