500 - Sonnet 500

What’s left to say after these 500
Fourteen line musing autobiographs?
Each thought’s been fought for, purposely hunted,
Sometimes to scold but often just for laughs.
Sonnets, a toy to employ disused paths
Of my mind’s hazy, mazy winding ways;
Maybe you find them crazy, like giraffes
That sit in the front row when watching plays.
But that appears so because rhyming phrase,
Pentameters and all, sometimes wanted
To fly with their own wings, wilful seraphs
Unwilling to seek merely mortal praise.
From where they come’s not fully understood,
But I’m no good at science or at maths.
Thur 17 Jan 2008