...am I?!



(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMLXXXIX)


Tis faintly golden on these fields white'd trail
Across til nothing's left but snow, as hence
Beethoven's ninth expresses that vague sense
We feel within our veins despite the tale
Of grandeur known as bunch, as if t'avail
Is naught before the face of what, fr'intents?
Say that we ARE, with an expectance thence
Beguiled and foiled, til hope seems far too frail.
I'd planned on Tuesday, but no, that was poor.
Called, and the scoundrels pleaded off, yet knew
Again, what eh?I was too busy fer
Whatever, so today? Why does e'il cue?
It's not my dolls I'm setting up in tour
For photos, it's just me.  Save me, won't You?

15Jan25a