A poet sans a spark to write, compose,
As if a pen without its ink to jot
Is useless; talent is reduced to naught,
No matter how much skill one has it's froze.
He, wherein, ponders, "Where's it gone? Suppose
The candle has been doused it e'er cannot."
Denying so, he thinks again what clots
The mind. He knows it now just what he owes.
Indebted he's to that, from where inspir'd,
His pride abated, findin' himself mundane,
To kindle minds of men, no spark afire,
And then one day a spark is set aflame!
The Lord, he thanks for all his love and grace,
Galore are sparks, the poet shall embrace!
(Composed as a Petrachan Sonnet)
As if a pen without its ink to jot
Is useless; talent is reduced to naught,
No matter how much skill one has it's froze.
He, wherein, ponders, "Where's it gone? Suppose
The candle has been doused
Denying so, he thinks again what clots
The mind. He knows it now just what he owes.
Indebted he's to that, from where inspir'd,
His pride abated, findin' himself mundane,
To kindle minds of men, no spark afire,
And then one day a spark is set aflame!
The Lord, he thanks for all his love and grace,
Galore are sparks, the poet shall embrace!
(Composed as a Petrachan Sonnet)
