In 14 lines, a sonnet tries to catch
A little less than all the world's spread.
It's not a microcosm, it's a sketch
Of one small corner, and whatever's said,
Is said that moment in a certain mood,
Which might not be there when you write tomorrow.
You seek the writer's soul? Do not conclude
Too much from one sad song that speaks of sorrow.
But, on the other hand, perhaps I'm wrong.
If looked at with great empathy and care,
The heart that poured itself into the song
May be revealed - its beating truth laid bare.
I hope not. My poor introverted mind
Would rather have some rhymes to hide behind.