To My Readers

A sonnet of sorts...

Photo by Europeana on Unsplash

These purple words lie dead upon the page,
Slain the very instant of their birth.
Their value lesser than my daily wage--
No timeless insights make their reading worth
The effort that it took me to compose
These clever lines with neither depth nor grace.
Yet someone, somewhere, sitting in repose
Might, in reading, have their heartbeat race.
For beauty lies within each reader's soul,
And I, my harshest critic, know not what
Will make melodic resonances toll,
Or unfurl notions long considered shut.
The reader has the final judgement; they
Give life again to every word I slay.

7/23/2025