Anticipation fills the waiting room
Of the mind with bright visions and colors
Shining previews of the magical “soon.”
The day, week, month, year against which others
Cannot compare in their dull reality.
The intervening moments are only
Bridges from here to there, spans from city
to city, drab and functional, lowly.
The great moment comes with a parade and bands
Children dancing in bright clothes, beaming faces
Smiling. Bland life itself will be new and
The old days will fade away, leave no traces.
This longed-for moment ends and we tire
Of hope. “No one can live in that fire.”
This is a Shakespearean sonnet, more or less. 14 lines, ababcdcdefefgg. Iambic pentameter (10 syllable lines with the stress on every other syllable, but I’m not a fetishist about that). The final six lines are supposed to set up a situation established by or counter to the first 8 lines. I’m not big on rules, though, other than the rhyme and syllable thing. I’m writing sonnets as a mental challenge, mostly, but once in a while one might be good. I started writing sonnets when I realized I just don’t have much more to say in one of my customary blog posts at the moment.