all of my future sonnets in one place! yay!
A little wooden box beneath my bed,
Among the shoestrings, dust bunnies, and dimes,
All wrapped up in thick, muted yellow thread,
Where I keep three-quatrain-and-couplet rhymes.
The tales of my heart and songs of my soul,
Written between math problems, ripped from books,
Holding the same wealth as each ancient scroll,
Stuffed in a box, into crannies and nooks.
Words of my life mean none to all but me,
What would another care if they were lost,
It would not matter in infinity,
There would be no consequences, no cost.
My sonnets mean something to me alone,
Only I've seen, in the moonlight, they shone.