Seventh Sonnet

We faked creation, misled the west trees,
Defrauded white horses and hoarded the sea,
Wild continents crashed, enforced marriages,
Better for writing, than one memory.
The bitter gale feigned, and bluffing the frost,
Old errors cursed, now the rubble’s not lost,
Latched on my cells as we turned and we tossed,
With counterfeit scales, love’s wage inflates cost.
With cattle I’ll talk, and prattle with dogs,
Weightlift in forests with woodcutter logs,
Blue kiss reduce me to spawn of the frogs,
Better for verses, love’s lapsed in life’s fogs.
If I could replace a shelf or a tyre,
I’d write with less time and lesser desire.

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