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.