Poeisis

No sonnet you write can ever be perfect because

No words are ever tailored to just the right length

And the sound of your breath never follows the laws

Exactly as the thought requires; as for sighs and strength,

No more than size in a measure of time or tempo,

And, worst of all, when your heart skips a beat, defeat

Is inevitable. Better far is the well-framed conceit,

With its ingenious wit and casual flow, mellow

As the breeze soughing in the darkness, winsome and soft,

While the nymph nimbly struts down the wind,

Her hair billowing, her ankles held aloft

By the very passion you sought to hide when you sinned.

As in a dream, as in a mirage, or in rhymes

You do not hear, like very distant chimes.