The me that isn’t me, I’m often seen.
Agree with my cri`tiques which make it worse.
I’ve lived my drama mid some other’s dream;
Oh, brother, bring the preacher and the hearse!
The sum of me is counted in my trials:
I’ve galloped; rode the beast of ‘better yet’…
I’ve burned the candle; it still burns awhile
but often journeys end with no respect.
No matter, who I am , without a win…
for in my soul, I’m happy just to know
my year is eighty in November, when
my hair is sprinkled with the splendid snow.
The person that is me, I’ve come to know
needs being loved and loving; that’s life’s glow.
April PAD 7, Writer’s Digest Challenge, 2014.
Form: Shakespearean Sonnet, 14 lines; iambic pentameter, abab;cdcd;efef;gg