A Sonnet Responds

		My length is set, but Petrarch gave no height.
		My patterns dressed the Bard in silken fame.
		I languish here alone, obscured from sight.
		My rules for metered rhyme are labeled lame.

		These poets scold, "You drain our minds." For shame!
		The souls who loved and dared to dream- they knew
		The promised gift that boldly bears my name. 
		But, still they say, "Your formal time is through."

		Today, I'm seen as gum that's found on shoe-
		I'm blamed for sticking words and poets down,
		And once they're stuck, I'm told, "You stick like glue,
		And those who wade in glue will surely drown."

		These modern bards who write their words in sleep
		Must stick in form those words they wish to keep.