Thursday, July 11, 2013

V. 2, #105: July 11, 2013

I'd crank out sonnets every single day
as long as I could hold and pen and pad,
if I thought, at the end of it, you'd say
I'd done a noble thing few people had;

I'd force my secret thoughts in molds of verse,
expose my red, raw heart for all to see,
if afterwards, while following my hearse,
you told the world how well you thought of me;

But I do not expect such eulogy,
from you or anyone. I've made my peace
with how I'll be remembered when I'm gone:
a vomiter of doggerel, that's me,
who only gave his rotten Muse surcease
at death, and was no one's sine qua non.

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