You’ve got to find your own goodness and truth
and live in it before you’ll know it well.
Just take this bit of sonnetary sooth -
this habit, this domain in which I dwell.
I started out with little more than hope
that I might someday have a song to sing.
And now I’ve got this globe, that telescope,
capacity and pride and endless bling.
You’ll tell me that you’ve seen all this before -
that these are relics of a former time.
It’s strange how much gets tossed from yore to yore.
But some things do recur. It’s not a crime.
And thus it re-begins - this form called sonnet:
fourteen lines of verse with a title upon it.