[I tried, once, to write a Sonnet, just to prove I could. And to turn it into something that, while it could rhyme, it didn't have to (and of course, is one of the things that Sonnets are supposed to do.) I actually have a couple of versions of this, the earlier that does rhyme, almost forcefully so. Which is why I don't like it as much. The issue is that some images in the first poem are better than the second, and vice versa. The great thing about writing poetry, or short stories, or novels, as some of my friends are discovering, is that they can always be re-edited, redone, words omitted or added, and meanings found in the letting of blood. It's the difference between writing poetry versus novels. In editing a novel, whole paragraphs can be lifted out like some form of liposuction, whereas poetry, editing becomes word by word, as if the surgeon uses a laser scalpel.]
Blooming Iris
Stare and wonder, at blue eyes shining,
A sea of periwinkle, saddened mercury.
Shivering, icy raindrops falling,
They look at you, plead for soft-heart empathy.
After the clouds have settled round the moon,
Before dreams remove their glimmering veils,
The iris seeks safety, but finding none,
Lies frost-bitten, weeping, as simplicity fades.
Forget your far-off shores, grasp a timid hand.
The deep eyes, fallen, must rise aflame,
Driving beasts away, allowing hearts to mend
The blooming iris, joyful tears running down the stem.
One touch will quell all monsters, end their reign,
Replace cold fears with warmth, and calm the pain.
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