The Last Sonnet        

The last sonnet, the very words do weep. 
They fall from my pen, a simile of tears.  
For now, the dried salt is all that I reap;  
The faded ink, accummulated years.  
Line after line, in tortured rhyme, vague thoughts,  
Imagined memories, figurative remains.  
My meter creeps. My paper, parched by droughts,  
Long kept from the metaphor of spring rains,  
Wrinkles like my stern brow with age.  
The imagery, like my ancient skin, is coarse  
And freckled with obscurity. My page  
Is about to turn. My rhetoric is too hoarse.  
The closing couplet, like my final breath,  
Turns over, coughs, and sputter to its death.  

                                       Copyright © 1996 Alain Silver
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