For times when my capacity is small
The neural pathways glide to comtrovee
I wonder if it threatens one and all
Of fleegunds in repooh confrasticly
Will flesh bespeak the hidden garlemphew
Will garlemphew return to days of creel
An accident of sounds the chawg renew
With irons dull by rotten lastig steel
True times will bind the hands with which we speak
We speak of words as if the gods will die
The strong will end below the waves that freak
The nouns and verbs on which the gods rely
It doesn’t really matter when they come
The sound of stains enhance a hardened scum.
This entry was posted on Monday, February 8th, 2021 at 11:49 pm and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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