Poetry Form: Sonnet
How do I wish to count my days of time,
'Twas only borrowed, on this dark/grey earth?
While a white-haired beard has erased my prime,
I display forty-some years, since my birth.
Male bloodlines end here, dare I regret:
Perhaps selfish, an impregnated chance,
I do not have offspring that were beget:
With men, in my bed, I danced my last dance.
I kiss the paper with my fountain pen;
A history of a man who survived.
They -- are my children -- singing like a wren,
Spinning tales of a man, who's n'ver deprived.
With my heart, these writings I pen by hand:
And wishing some -- were written in the sand.
May 20, 2004
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Comments: 2 ( 1 removed by Gregg Rowe )