War of the Words [sonnet]
The scout returned and broke the wretched news:
The citadel of dreams was breached by those
whose cold prosaic manner misconstrues
the warm Arcadian heart which overflows.
They stormed the walls with ordinary ink
(for that was all they wielded in their quills).
They thought into that city they could slink
with rubber stamps gained from diploma mills.
Yet, though the walls had crumpled from their weight
(for they were legion, marching in a line)
that city they would never arrogate
nor could they its true dwellers undermine.
Espousing shallow intellect in verse
is in this world a sickness and a curse!
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 