140 Syllables
A Sonnet Blog With Very Ominous Endings
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Thursday, May 21, 2020
Clutter
Nobody thinks
Of anything good
Not that I could
With these time sinks;
Everyone drinks
(Not that they should)
I think I would
Except that beer stinks.
Quarantine seems
A half-world haze
With no law left.
Now all is dreams
In empty days
Meaning bereft.
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