I've always loved writing sonnets. The structure makes you work twice as hard. In fact one day I might conduct my entire life in sonnets. It suits maudlin wanky subjects but I've also written them in deep anger before. You do not want to piss off a sonneteer. This one is neither maudlin nor angry, just a bit moody. I didn't manage to take a picture for this one so have used google.
A Sonnet for the Haunted
The streets still dry and seedy wait for rain,
pale lights behind IKEA muslin flare,
the shingly trees heave deeply, heave again,
woodsmoke instead of charred meat in the air.
I dreamed of you last night, not once but twice,
trying to get in or to get out
of memory, of burial in ice,
camped in my sleep, a lone nocturnal scout.
I've often wondered if a sudden shock
would pull you out: a deadened greyish tooth.
A whiplash or a choreographed knock,
a smack across the face with blatant truth.
But everyone we love, though they are lost,
retain; no chance of giving up the ghost.