Sonnet the First

Into a sonnet’s harsh embrace I choose
to give my naughty soul – too taken by
irregular flight, afraid, in chains, to die,
convinced the confines will its wings abuse.

This sharp conundrum pains. My soul eschews
the wisdom peddled by the sage, who cry
the virtues of the freedom found inside
the prison set on rhyme’s and meter’s dues.

In spite of all I’ll bend my neck, believe
the promise, take my cure, accept the rule,
expect a world of verse to soon achieve,
this bitter jail to free and prove a jewel.

A commonplace will, thus, be shown anew
to lead to dancing still, and still be true.