When Art's Its Own Reward

A poet, head heeding to no hard rules, That walks tall leaning on no staff of cane, Penchant for pen, passion with no refrain, A student of own self, taught at no schools; His pen no offspring of self-inflict pain, Let ace swimmers come from no shallow pool, Let wanderlust in no local parks cool, His prolific pen dries not, should ink drain. He knows, wild flora weird fragrance spread, Their blossoms in bushes boast of fond friends, Though far afar from plucking, prying hands; Much so, like wild flowers he earns no grade. It is when art retains reward its own, He learns to remain fresh like early dawn. ______________________________________________________ Sonnets | 03.07.11 |