My sonnets are not perfect so I must
Pursue with my intention to succeed
In ten long years I've dented but the crust
Whereof this passion was at first decreed..
From time to time it seemed I neared the target,
As each line grew more gently than the last,
But never was I able to forget
That volts hiding in the overcast.
This passion presses principally at weekend
As I review my efforts lately made,
And find a poem that I know I should send
Away to cease its shocking masquerade.
But as I near five hundred sonnets mine
I'll wait to hear the final bell for 'Time'.
Comments about this poem (The soneteer by Eric Bult )
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