Sunday, March 16, 2008

You say iambic pentameter, I say who cares?

Here's a "sonnet" I wrote for my English class last month:

Nightmare (or, The Cause of Insomnia)

To dwell in unconscious fabrications
For faint multitudes is blissfully sweet.
Yet when glorious fantasy darkens
The eerie and nefarious you'll meet.
Their piercing eyes scrutinize every move
As you writhe with fear, stumbling away.
Your much discomfort they seem to approve
As they turn ecstasy into dismay.
Tattered, hooded robes, like Death's, drag behind
As one glides forward, a raw hand outstretched.
A defending beacon you try to find
For your hope of survival is farfetched.
Yet there's no need to fret, no need to care.
Sunlight will wake you from this strange nightmare.