If sticks could branch o’er fears and demons great,
I’d ne’er find myself hope for more than these.
A tree sits not for years to only wait;
No, his buds do wave at dead falling leaves.
His pulse beats wild like flustered rabbits’ darts
But never sings more than a bee’s soft hum.
His wiry wooden fingers stab at hearts
But never fails too, bidding my beat come.
Dirt doesn’t come em’rald-eyed to stare up,
But often’s dragooned by jealous stares down,
And humbly hides until dug down enough.
The sky and ground are always wear’ng his crown.
So sky and dirt wish not to be bear’ng it,
His leaves be my gold, wreathed, on my crown set.
_____For English class we were apparently supposed to write a sonnet, and this is what I've been able to come up with in an hour. Yeah, I know, the meter is off, but I sorta gave up on searching for synonyms. The thesaurus is only a friend for so long.
_____I hope it's not supposed to be about love... because it's more like I'm in hopes of taking over a tree. How odd it is too... but sleep calls greater than whistles through wood.
(Later side-note: apparently I didn't do too horribly on this, because my English teacher thought that I had plagiarized it, so Googled the title and returned it to me failed with this blog page attached... rather amusing.) : )
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