Somber sonnets of cold, hard days,
Penned to elicit emotion,
Serve to free the pent up tears,
Caged inside for far too long.
Many a poet struggles much,
Searching, searching, every word,
Wanting so to reach perfection,
To place his heart upon the page.
The line is fine between the two,
The soft heart and logical mind,
Stripping one to clothe the other,
Slave is master, then master slave.
Giving, taking, trying, failing,
Starting over, again and again,
Getting ever closer, closer,
The dance goes on, into the night.
At last, peace, balance achieved,
A song of love, lost and found,
A rhythm pounding, off and on,
A new poem, lives, breathes, feels.
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