Sonnet 666

a poem of fourteen lines that can rhyme
at any time, having ten syllables
per line is fine by me, ask the devil.
a sight to behold, a sound to be told,
each silly sonnet is a plea to her,
an alchemist turning commas as cures.
it's like looking for a door that just keeps
disappearing before my eyes in sleep,
and in sad sand my feet fall forever deep.
my curse is to continue despite all,
and I have hit so many concrete walls,
yet I carry on, compelled to limp tall.
the devil, poetry, and love as fall.