Sonnet Eight for Will

If I could coax two words that nearly rhyme
out of this poorly-wired little brain,
I might beguile my doubts that this sublime
and over-hopeful course can be maintained.
If I had grit, I’d turn my flabby will
into some mighty muscles - I would stretch
before I was required to sit still,
and turn these airy notions into text.
I could lament the days I burned to ash,
but lamentation brings no saving grace
I could consign this doggerel to the trash,
and flee from self-deception’s stale embrace –
and then again, I just might spend the night
re-writing this damn thing until it’s right.