Sonnettic Smoke

Sonnettic smoke was once poetic light
A flame that lit the way when life was dark
But now it only bows before the night
Its warmth has been reduced to just a spark

Its metaphors retract within the wick
Of words that cling iambically to life
Its similes are like the words I flick
From ashes in a candle, with my knife

I wish that I could find a simple match
To strike, and thus re-light my little song
I know there must be some way I could catch
The smoke that rises where my words belong

Sonnettic smoke was once a brilliant flame
But now it seems to want another name.

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