A sonnet to Will Shakespeare, who didn’t write
In a descriptive sonnetly mode
Of his love’s beauty, her conquering light,
Her hair so radiant so...that it glowed;
Who didn’t write how much he loved, nor proved
He loved, nor wrote how much he wrote how much
He wrote how much he loved, but that he loved,
That he loved, his inclination was such;
Who didn’t write with words, nor poetic
Devices, but with land masses of thought,
Which shifted and moved, do, now prophetic
Now revealing, not unchanging and caught;
A thankful sonnet to him, whose kisses
Are softer than a buttercup, this is.