A modified Spenserian sonnet
A precious gift is life, and how we use
Each moment tells just what we think it's worth;
A wasted dawn is reproof of our birth,
and consequences that we can't refuse.
There is no misplaced talent on this earth,
for with each voice a different song is heard;
And it is never useless or absurd,
So sing it out with joy and endless mirth.
To those who mutter, life is only merde,
I say, then fertilize your garden bed;
There is no point in living when you're dead -
So seize each day and give it living words.
For life is made of each of our intents -
Against which thought, none can bring evidence.
25 NOV 2002
Leave a comment