So I got all ambitious and shit today and decided I’d try to write a sonnet. Yes, a fucking sonnet. And, yes, it rapidly turned into “a FUCKING sonnet” when I remembered that I can’t count syllables or identify where stresses are on a word.
But, by that point, I’d already gotten halfway through the damned thing, and it seemed a waste not to finish it. You can probably tell the exact point where I lost control of it because it gets labored there in the middle. I’m sorry. My only defense is that this is my very first attempt at writing in iambic pentameter. I probably should’ve at least just gone for blank verse to start with, rather than trying to do the iambic pentameter AND the end-rhymes. But what is a woman without ambition, yes?
Oh, also, this was supposed to be a rather happy poem, but it got away from me and took a turn for the depressing at the end. That was also not intentional. Lo siento. For the record, knowing that there is an early Easter coming does, in fact, make me very happy. But, alas, this year’s isn’t until the end of April. Oh, the irony.
Also-also, all the usual disclaimers about rough drafts and maybe one day going back and fixing this thing. Try not to laugh yourself into an asthma attack if you continue past this point.
When poor Persephone’s descent begins
and takes with her the light of afternoon
even before just 6 o’clock, again
I find the madness that once more consumes
me. It sacrifices my sanity
upon the altar of the Autumn night,
and seems quite endless–least it does to me.
But one small thing gives hope, a single white
and black wee square upon the calendar.
Oh, God, yes–Easter comes in March this year!
The pain of Winter starts to ease, to blur,
replaced by hope and light–uncertain cheer.
But why is it the Lamb must die in vain
that I may breathe and laugh and live again?