A New Sonnet in C

Oh, antiquarian expedition

Of mine, through whom I recline,

I have played against your own tradition,

Tried making merry with all your sunshine,

And in that all, I only expected

Such words that have been waiting to be said,

Yes, through such movements was I rejected?

For in your own faith you are better led.

A summoner of words so true to me,

When paths are set, there is less to be seen:

I must allow for the fight to set free,

And blue- or green- tell me what your eyes mean;

We cannot strive to cease the beating heart,

Instead we’ll let lies commit to the start.

The End

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