Up all night trying to squeeze you into a sonnet,
To measure your personality with the metre of iambic pentameter.
To emphasize your sense of attitude with paired couplets,
Divide your striking attributes in rhyming quatrains, a prosody parameter.
In fourteen lines,I would canvas your astounding humor,
With seven rhymes I’d paint the innocence in your eyes,
And how your abrupt mood swing is a harsh volta.
I would praise the feline hip sway in your strides,
The beauty you fail to hide even when you’re angered,
The poetry your being recites when you dance,
The resonance of your voice when your laughter is triggered,
The innate inclinations you convey by a simple glance.
All night I squeeze you into a Sonnet my Love,
Fourteen lines,seven rhymes and yet it is not enough.
Picture📷: Black Poetry
A Broody Hen
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