I gently trace my fingers down your spine,
caressing the rigid, bony surface.
I search your structure to at last define
your value and understand your purpose.
To what it is, I have often pondered.
The answer has yet been spoken aloud.
So through your worn pages, I have wandered
though you let your cover remain a shroud.
Your venerable age is evident,
but your knowledge proves eminently wise.
So exact numbers are irrelevant,
as long as you soon uncover your guise.
Pursuing to read the words in your book
will grant me knowledge if I care to look.
This was my first ever attempt at a sonnet that I wrote for my poetry class. My professor didn’t require us to use iambic pentameter, so I didn’t focus on that aspect throughout the entire piece, although it is evident in some of the lines.