Smoke and Mirrors

Sample Poem

SONNET

The flowing river of my verse ran dry

And yesterday became a turgid stream,

As if the bard within me closed his eyes

And slept perchance forsaking all his dreams.

Poetic licence could, it seemed, expire

Or be by some prosaic gods revoked,

Who of my butchery of words grew tired

Or were yet to their vengeful ire provoked.

Crossing the arrid wastelands of despair,

Weighed by the corpse of poetry still-born

I smote my bardic brow and cursed the air

Whose Muse hath left him now bereft, forlorn.

When birds of rhyme have flown, beware ‘tis true!

To bring them back there’s naught a man can do.