[ButterCookie]

First pop at a sonnet.

So as I stop to tie my shoe,
The rain does fall upon my back.
I look up to the swing which I outgrew,
and then glance to mine own name carved upon a weathered plaque.
The wind whips my florals about my knees,
The tired old swing creaks and groans.
Whilst Mr. Wind whistles to a gentle breeze,
Yet still he rattles through my aching bones.
As I press on, my skin cracks,
My lips blister.
and I think of my kingdom and that which it lacks,
My mind wrought in a deep, gray twister.
I wish for a bed under the stars, on which Mr. Wind can steal my woes,
calmness upon me, he bestows.