I love the limitations and restrictions of the discipline required in writing a sonnet.
There may well be just so much pointless folly in this
He gazed upon a shipwreck and he saw it was his life
With all the bits of Hope along the shore;
For Fate it seems it likes to twist the knife,
A missed chance passed beyond him like before.
Ambition was in bits like much flotsam now;
Each little piece like what just might have been
Turned his beach to a sort of mess somehow;
This was a thing he wished he had not seen.
To seek to do good work leads but to a fall,
To strive with might and main a pointless thing,
like dreaming you achieve a clarion call,
It’s life, not death, that bears the poison sting.
The earth it spiralled on about the sun
This dying microbe grieved for things not done.
© T.Morgan 2014