Black Sonnet

Confined to the pen of a dead poet's hand,

Black thoughts, white paper, I wonder;

Where among them would I stand

And would my verse be worthy of their ponder?

Would Shakespeare honor me Miss Ebony,

And with a sonnet of mine his replace,

While Keats and Browning heralded me

Poet of a new and different race?

But why seek favor from the dead

When the dead no longer critique,

Nor hear a word of what is said

When upon their works we speak.

So, it tis without applause and content I'll be

To live and write unlike these dead three.