Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Octet of a Non-Existant Petrarchan Sonnet:

The scrawl was just that, misprision
No suture could mend, like edelweiss.
We weren't left alone with the device
Everyone's whispering about, as in a Fun
House timbre which threatens the spun-
Glass balance I perch on as doves slice
The grey air, supple with the scent of spice
But abrasive not sweet like a Cinnabun.

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