III

A sonnet's just a lyric after all
A song, a verse, a poem: the act's the same
Conviction of a mind, the playing hall
The actor, pen to paper; life the frame

An audience designs itself, in vain,
For fair interpretation of a musing
They cite, quote and dissect. In short they feign
To "understand," each definition bruising

And whether that such skill be lacking of
Some larger wellspring of eternal truth,
To craft belief's portrayal is a love
encompassing the ends; the means uncouth.

Yet though our final curtain holds our sight,
The final rite that makes us right is: write.