Sonnets are Medicine

An insomniac wrestles with iambic pentameter

(Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash)

Sonnets are medicine when I can’t sleep,
O, pale poetic morphine gently nursed,
Counting iambs lures the sandman to creep.
I yawn, I drift, I drown: the dream damn’s burst,
Unfinished sonnets fade into the deep,
While Shakespeare warns: “Write the final couplet first.”
“But that kills the suspense,” I start to weep.
He exits in a huff — so well rehearsed:
“About your sonnet, I…