A sonnet sings iambic double time,
surrounded by a sussurus of sounds
of arguments built up in feet and rhyme,
negating doubt as motif's will abounds.
Not limited to just a solid core,
emancipated by analogy,
the second stanza spreads across the floor
arising from the scribbling prodigy
not seeing the prediction of a twist.
Allowing for the smite of irony,
the sonnet turns to bite the poor bard's wrist.
One thing is true - a poet's destiny
meanders like the fish in mountain streams.
Yet sonnets draw straight lines beneath your dreams.
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