who's next unless someone thinks i need to edit 
the first three lines of the ultimate sonnet will be;
So this is how we enter: clockworks tick,
they tock; they tell your story in the hall.
The childhood strengths that guide you brick by brick.
so make you last line rhyme with hall
All Our Yesterdays
i.
So this is how we enter clockwork's tick
into a lifetime of fragility.
Come quick, small child! Your heart is but a chick's
small squeaks; your wings are barely feathered. See,
the steel-clawed beast in smock and apron gear
won't harm your molded head. This violent day
will fade. Don't turn to crawl back in from fear
of numbered clocks that beep your heart away—
into cold night, in bed with mother moon,
brief as icicle drips at sunrise—strife
will lift as scrapbook pages turn. So soon
you will grow old! The brevity of life
will strike you grey; yet pictures line the wall,
they talk. They tell your story in the hall.
ii
They talk; they tell your story in the hall.
A wall of photo shoots from nought 'til now
of scratched-knee-summers, or a freezing fall.
Vignettes of crawls and steps; I don't know how
you pulled your chubby frame from floor
and slowly skewed, at first a step: Then two.
To stop the wobbling arse you grabbed the door
then jiggled like a jelly, what a view.
So many times you fell, you will again
but hopefully you'll rise enough to see,
the value of a stumble or the strain
that bends a body, often lays the key.
Inside a man's foundation one can pick
the childhood strengths that guide you brick by brick.
the first three lines of the ultimate sonnet will be;
So this is how we enter: clockworks tick,
they tock; they tell your story in the hall.
The childhood strengths that guide you brick by brick.
so make you last line rhyme with hall
All Our Yesterdays
i.
So this is how we enter clockwork's tick
into a lifetime of fragility.
Come quick, small child! Your heart is but a chick's
small squeaks; your wings are barely feathered. See,
the steel-clawed beast in smock and apron gear
won't harm your molded head. This violent day
will fade. Don't turn to crawl back in from fear
of numbered clocks that beep your heart away—
into cold night, in bed with mother moon,
brief as icicle drips at sunrise—strife
will lift as scrapbook pages turn. So soon
you will grow old! The brevity of life
will strike you grey; yet pictures line the wall,
they talk. They tell your story in the hall.
ii
They talk; they tell your story in the hall.
A wall of photo shoots from nought 'til now
of scratched-knee-summers, or a freezing fall.
Vignettes of crawls and steps; I don't know how
you pulled your chubby frame from floor
and slowly skewed, at first a step: Then two.
To stop the wobbling arse you grabbed the door
then jiggled like a jelly, what a view.
So many times you fell, you will again
but hopefully you'll rise enough to see,
the value of a stumble or the strain
that bends a body, often lays the key.
Inside a man's foundation one can pick
the childhood strengths that guide you brick by brick.