Iambic Pentameter

I've realised lately that most of my work is written in free verse. To encourage myself to write more broadly I've set myself a task of writing to a different poetic form each week. I understand that this may sound contrived, and in a way I agree. But I also think that it may improve my skill to be able to alter my language in way that'll fit with a prescribed form. This week I've chosen rhymed iambic pentameter, loved by the renaissance poets and dramatists. If anyone has a suggestion for the title I'd be more than happy to hear it.

 

 

Why is it so that dreams mislead the heart?

Pretends to us that fiction happened true.

And so we're left with conscious torn apart,

as foundless doubts grasp seeds of hope anew.

 

Forbidding them to plant their gentle roots;

Restricting growth which suffocates their hope;

Removing happiness that fed the shoots;

Strangling rational thought with doubtful rope.

 

Or is it so that heart misleads our dreams?

Encouraging the want we most desire.

On waking thought: We've yielded what it seems

we lacked, but in reality just ire.