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Poetry
October 25, 2013
Again she clouds my head,
But on a different melody,
Her beauty is a ballad,
Where as mine is tragedy.
She recites soothing haiku,
I recite hastily written free verse.
I act like letters are a game,
So she always wins at horse.
My limericks are crude,
Her cinquain is written gracefully,
When given true form,
I guess we are diamonte.
So may Shakespeare write us,
May Elizabeth Barret Browning turn our name to sonnet,
And future poets never forget.
© Sarah M., Blairsville, PA
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