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[Three AI image apps failed to get the format of this sonnet absolutely correct.  The one above is the umpteenth attempt by Bing’s AI. For the actually correct format, see the vesion below, please.]

The Sonnet in Its Little Room

The sonnet, much too like a tight cocoon,

Encased inside its silk-like threads is far

Too tiny and too strict but not immune

To mystic grandeur.  It is not a czar

Upon a dais seat raised up and vast

Of gold, but more a derringer well-honed

To open up with unexpected blast

The unsuspecting mind.  Though now dethroned

By modern rule-less rules demanding some

Anointed anarchy, some sonnets hold

Within their fourteen ribs the pulsing thrum

Of mysteries revealed in molten gold.

..The chrysalis comprises silk and power

….And swears a presence, vows a flying flower.

© Phillip Whidden