...the last of three for national poetry day when writing one's become a chore.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXL)
Tis nash'nal po'try day, and I've from thence Ne words for aught. To be suffices. Pale Hours watch rain trip on puddles to avail, As I wish to be out there listning, whence Do not take notes; thet silver eye suspense Just trims its nails through, sans a voice, is frail. And when those navy racks glowr in betrayl, I note orange bushes, yet hopes are pretense. We have our dinner now as gloaming'd stir. Wash dishes after, while the dark night to Effect is black, so very black. Who tour Upon these roads are like the fireflies through Warm August twilight. Oh! What is't as twere? Why's writing such a chore? Will being just do?
10Oct18c
Please dinna waste your time trying to correct supposed spelling errors since I deliberately penned it thus for ease of reading.