This poem is written in the sonnet form,
And yet I have my doubts about its shape
Though nearly to that structure it conforms
There may be holes where nightmare faces gape.
It looks and speaks just as a sonnet would
And talks of metaphysical concerns.
Do we conclude, as poets and readers should,
That in our schizoid age we cannot learn?
For humans now snarl with the teeth of wolves;
And lions are dressed in cuddly warm sheepskin
Thus sense is tricked and problems are unsolved,
So,hey, we dreaming blind just carry on.
It looks like one,it feels like one,it speaks;
Yet from my words, does human feeling leak?
How my heart sings 