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A Sin, Not To Be A Sonnet…?

 

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So when is a sonnet not what it seems?
Fourteen lines counted across centuries past
Scrambled eggs in one basket of dreams
Scripted divine, surmounting those iconoclast

Rhyming in rhythms so we are told
Nine left now bereft of a pseudo story
Defining the schisms of sown rules old
A line out of place stressed in poetic glory

Six lines now, is all I’m allowed
Affixing conflicting beliefs that crowd
My delivered eloquence to all of you
Stilted in quilted soft tissue couture
Shaking my spear, too much to endure
At least it’s more relevant than appalling Haiku.

 

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