Sonnet 1


One thinks never of how one can be bad
And yet time proves even the kindest prone
To all such things that are blamed on being mad
But one sees what one does when one is alone

To deal with the onset of such desire
As to require the use of discretions
That might prevent setting the house on fire
While lighting the matches of compulsion

And then to see how the careful effort
At creating a personage crumbles
In an instant of amoral comfort
As the excuses become just mumbles

Before the evidence of a misdeed
Hollows out the solidness of a creed.

Bevagna, 28 1 2009