God, in your mercy, please, don't ever let
the sewage of self-pride pollute this pen,
you gave me to record in versed vignette
the lunacies and majesties of men.
The facile tendency to champion styles
of sonnetry, above more worthy Thought,
creates a blind where fools behind snide smiles
can foist their trivia and ply their snot.
Pure poetry, like wind through flowering trees
flows free as water falls from beautied height.
The plumb of meaning's depths sounds new degrees
by which men learn their mysteries and might,
the best of which is a veil dance to tease
Earth's sons to know their lives with God-like sight.