I can’t believe I’m writing Sonnet ten.

Time has flown by and aged my own style.

I now feel ready to say that I can,

Write in my own form that can beguile,

With it’s words and sounds, to pick up a pen,

And write in languid speech that when read,

Desires the lips to taste it again.

And for this I choose personal verse instead.

I have often wondered every now and then,

Where the words come from and how they find us.

But to questions them is not for wise men,

Their forms vary, but intent remains thus.

And with my tenth behind me, I move on,

To pursue words with time as my life’s long.