Scheherezade

As I pass a thousand sonnets on this blog
I stop and think about what came before;
I ought, perhaps, to feel it's been a slog,
A long slow process ending with a snore,
But I can't bring myself to think that way,
Not just because I like the end results,
But from the joy I've had in such wordplay.
And knowing that they're read, my heart exults,
So how could I be bored? I could not be,
It's far, far too much fun to write this stuff,
Whether I'm being self-expository
Or rather more deceitful - it's enough
To know I'm writing, and to joy therein:
And so no boredom, and therefore no fin.