Oh, these are awful. My seventh graders wrote English sonnets better than these. Ah, well. In the interest of complete disclosure, here you go:
A Second Look at What I Hold
My favor may not siren you to look.
Charisma’s avatar may not be this;
No special talent, star, prestige, or hook
As advertisements of potential bliss.
I may be too bold, introducing myself
Without a friend, or Time, or need as host.
And while my likeness may have only flit
In your pellucid scope, flashed then gone,
Pause now; consider my attendance; give
New sight to too thin eyes, grace in your gaze.
For even angels here must stop to live
And worry, fear the answer, suffer days.
You, who reads trashy books and gets bad colds,
Can take a second look at what I hold.
Further evidence that I was (and probably still am) a prat:
Do I have time to wrestle down my soul?
Is there space for me to map my mind
And interpolate a course that says it all:
The shared and obvious and yet enshrined;
Is it possible to conjure up such lines?
What metric pace can measure what I have kept,
And which unknown can be explained in rhyme?
Labored words do not pay my longing’s debt.
I cannot voice my world of feeling yet,
As cosmic physics press unheeding on,
Our gravitating souls will come unwrapped;
And mutual orbits keep perpetual dawn.
The breadth of life may be too broad for breath,
But the other’s breating avoids a final death.