Tuesday, April 24, 2012

sonnet ninety three

ushered into a lonely night
where shadows hover and
the pain thrives and
exists longer that it should have,

yet again we question
why we remain and
this seemed to be archaic
and rhetorical

like a mystery that
dissembles our beginning,
where everything to be

hoped for lies tainted
by my lack of foresight,
by my inability to concede.

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