To capture worlds within mere fourteen lines

Or praise stern gods in iambs much the same;

To laud a lover’s heart in formal rhyme

Or chastise fate with pithy lyric blame.

Abridged in verse, mute Heaven to entreat—

More apt to rouse dark devils from their lairs;

A terse rogation beckoning woe complete

Ensuring life stands rife with sheer despair.

In this, perhaps, I chart my destiny,

Scribed brash and blunt—a brazen tale of old,

A search for Aidenn, naught but Hell to see;

Broad Epics crushed to odelets in this mold.

By scope of Sonnet, I shall make it brief:

All afterworlds are lies; and Time’s a thief.