It is ambiguous, what your feelings tell me.
Planes and ships that pass me, days and nights.
Gives me a heart to dream,to believe in you and me!
Homeward bound,my ship goes with the tides.
Through little in life renders me such delight
Past poets, like a furnace my eyes burn me!
We're mismatched by nature; for the role that we fight.
From verse to verse, love's encountered yearns
To fly above clouds, so fluffy and soft,
Abreast, eternally, two immortal poets abide
And pay no heed to pagan prophecies, as aloft
As beyond our fragile skin,the heart collides
Upon broken bows, of love's ill fate,
To the later stages, of our decline, debates!
I am the sonnet, never quickly thrilled;
Not prone to overstated gushing praise
Nor yet to seething rants and anger, filled
With overstretched opinions to rephrase;
But on the other hand, not fond of fools,
And thus, not fond of people, on the whole;
And holding to the sound and useful rules,
Not those that seek unjustified control.
I'm balanced, measured, sensible (at least,
I think I am, and usually I'm right);
And when more ostentatious types have ceased,
I'm still around, and doing, still, alright.
In short, I'm calm and rational and stable -
Or, well, I am, as much as I am able. |
What Poetry Form Are You?
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