Some say the sonnets a dead form ¦ on yellowed pages and booklets torn,
Pentarchy shed and slain, replaced ¦ by memes I'm bicc, dat boi, he based

In synaptic pools, and neural spools, ¦ with cool *** claws, and digital jewels;
we set as one, booked up our sole ¦ while tindr/grindr take their toll

On sultry pages cast to withered dust ¦ while leaves left golden crust,
the muttered lines unbound escape ¦ to Tengri's starry 'voided gape

I think I am, I am I think, ¦ with wink and shirk and nod and drink
and cough, we splutter NoStros verse ¦ as fiery Gaia suffers curse

But then again, who are but we? ¦ a single sound, a drop in sea,
a dangling solace sharp in key, ¦ a lonesome sold for wired fee

When finally, undone we are ¦ our freedom sold, our chains bizzarre;
I'm caught between two planes that part ¦ a Second Life, and First (too dark)

So when again we sit and talk ¦ and fill the space with idle balk;
I'll notice parts of you I've missed ¦ and seek a comfort long dismissed

So when again we meet and stray ¦ to thoughts of hidden brevity;
I'm happy knowing it's just me ¦ Unhappiness my major key.

So finally, I'll try again ¦ to feel the pain, the roots and then
Pretty Pimpin? Scrimpin' life amock¦ Sat at home with screen and sock.