Slump
(Shakesperean sonnet in Iambic Pentameter)
Sobs, muted sobs, night's harvest of remorse,
spread from the core and dribble through the eyes,
in search of solace on this woeful course,
of bygone suns that shall no longer rise.
Cries, muffled cries, those nightmares of despair,
rise from the pits to choke a gloomy soul,
and waken corpses from commitments’ lair,
where pledges gather dust...
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