The Sonnet in Its Little Room
The sonnet, much too like a tight cocoon,
Encased inside its silk-like threads is far
Too tiny and too strict but not immune
To mystic grandeur. It is not a czar
Upon a dais seat raised up and vast
Of gold, but more a derringer well-honed
To open up with unexpected blast
The unsuspecting mind. Though now dethroned
By modern rule-less rules demanding some
Anointed anarchy, some sonnets hold
Within their fourteen ribs the pulsing thrum
Of mysteries revealed in molten gold.
..The chrysalis comprises silk and power
….And swears a presence, vows a flying flower.