Sonnet for A Child

The amount of times I’ve looked for a place

Between Wilfred Owen and Oscar Wilde

On some dusty bursting bookcase
To sow the seed of a makeshift child

Born to a plethora of playwrights

That can only do wrong
When between Lennon/McCartney copyrights

No note is left for his song

But if all that can has been scribbled, sang and said
And on the scrapheap of words to which pencils are wed
There remain only lies tied to the true
Then why do my mornings invite the new?

And if the dreamers of our realm have long since fell,
Then what of this child’s heart where secrets dwell?