The murder was under the Hawthorn, its flower white as her bridal dress. She hung there until, in pity, buried. A pity, she spared her groom.
Random Word: Flowering Hawthorn
I stare and sigh, is this a sonnet form?
It has some rhymes as does a sonnet form.
Yet dull you say, so different than the norm.
My poem has an iambic rhythm, right?
A sonnet is so regular like it, right?
Does silence tell me you think erudite shite?
I like to think it has emotion too.
A summer's day, it ain't but passion too
of sorts, within a line or two, I argue.
You see the form must grow to live and shock.
Shakespeare so loved, what Petrarch found a shock
and so must you, although you think it's a crock.
And yet I have my doubts, my dreams and fears,
of sonnets lacking love or even tears.
Random Word: The Goddess