Once Sonnet Fever takes you to her bed
your every thought becomes expressed in rhyme.
You're in her grasp and cannot break the thread
which binds you to a mellow metered time.
No more the hard insistence of I AM!
No arrogance nor mad machismo roar,
instead the soft persistence of iamb,
like gentle wavelets lapping at the shore.
Surrender then and fall to her embrace,
Relax and let her soothe your fevered brow,
Accept your fate with dignity and grace,
a willing slave bound fast to till her plough.
This gentle mistress lays on you her curse.
You'll nevermore like writing in Free Verse.
Comments about this poem (Sonnet Fever by Thomas Vaughan Jones )
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