My good Ronove,
On the wings of a dove,
You hold a trove
Flying aloft, filled with love.
The sonnet that sings of A then B
Can challenge the best of us,
I don't intentionally venture to see
If I can adhere to that omnibus.
Of lyrical rules
I hold passable tryst,
I've but simple tools
To forge words in my list.
I play the poet
to stretch the mind,
And with my poor tools so it,
That others might reap what I left behind.
On the wings of a dove,
You hold a trove
Flying aloft, filled with love.
The sonnet that sings of A then B
Can challenge the best of us,
I don't intentionally venture to see
If I can adhere to that omnibus.
Of lyrical rules
I hold passable tryst,
I've but simple tools
To forge words in my list.
I play the poet
to stretch the mind,
And with my poor tools so it,
That others might reap what I left behind.





















