Thursday, November 5, 2015


                    These lyrics are just half way to the song
                    That won’t be real until it’s rightly sung,
                     Intended for you only or a throng,
                     Emerging trippingly from off your tongue.

                    It’s but a thought that’s not yet realized
                    Until it manifests whole-heartedly,
                    Since only when intoned will it be prized
                    For both its concept and its melody.

                    Sheet music or a script is what you hold,
                    Amounting only to a latency
                    Still waiting to be realized and sold,
                    Fulfilling its potentiality.

                        So now, Dear Reader, make this sonnet sing,
                        And hear what joy or sorrow it may bring.