The
year of sonnets will pass without note,
"Nor
long remembered," as Abe Lincoln said.
Your
hope would be the rhyming words you wrote
Might
someday be heard, exhumed like the dead
From
electronic mausoleums filled
With
bits of wisdom. But no. You hid your lights
Too
long under bushels. But no. You killed
Your
best self by wasting your days and nights
Clicking
on politics, the yin and yang
Of leeches,
rent seekers, the right and left
Lickspittles,
licking left, then right. You sang
Of
nothing and now you are left bereft,
The
anonymous man, the minor man,
Paterfamilias of a small clan.
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