I thought to try my hand and write

To pen a sonnet, t’would be my first

And burned my candle into night

But what I penned was worse and worst.

The crumpled sheets mock me at best

They lay in corners where they gloat.

Black ink smudged in grotesque jest

Taunting me of what I wrote.

I set a fire to the room

And kindled it with all my rhyme.

Which didn’t take long to consume

More fodder for the flame next time.

Now in the ashes of my deed

I found a single untouched rose

A blushing hint perhaps a need

To pen anew in simple prose.

12/07/2005