||The Last Sonnet
The last sonnet, the very words do
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.