When told to write a sonnet, I must confess
I truly knew not what to write on
Shall I speak of boundless joy, or lament all loneliness?
Shall I compare a rose to death, or they smile to the dawn?
Shall I write in purple words
About that which I hold dear
And let them fly, like nimble birds,
To alight upon thine ear?
I might speak of an endless ocean and call it love
I might speak of a burning city and call it hate
I might speak of peace and call it the wing of a dove
I might speak of many things, but still mine hand doth hesitate
Perhaps I shall not write today
It seems that I have nothing to say