Here’s the third draft (still untitled) of  a sonnet. This draft keeps the rhythm of each line the same with four iambic feet per line. All you have to do is pronounce piteous a bit oddly as two syllables, and it kind of works. I’ll do better next week.

A sound a ring a buzz a beep

A stress demands response direct

There is none there, as if asleep.

A wall of pain arose unchecked.

Not pain of knives so fine so keen

But pain of life not lived, sedate

To wake each day again to preen

A looking glass so full of hate.

The wise man comes too late to aid

No help, he bides his patient time.

To see him fight to keep himself

From wasting every piteous climb.

There is no way to sit in peace

No path forward. Into the east.