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2003


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2004

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04-05


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Sonnet #1


I fear that life does not hold all it seems
For Death, the saint, the demon holds us all.
And that which we believe amounts to dreams
Awaiting our inevitable fall.
And as we live we are but merely dying,
From broken heart, from broken sleep, from fear.
We kid ourselves, by stopping up the crying
And smile a smile of dread and loathing dear.
How strange that even the most pious weep!
How strange that skeptic thousands fear no snath!*
For those who bear their faith need not lack sleep
And those who have none may just bear the wrath.
But who’s to say that Hell will bring the worst
When life’s arduous journey is a curse?



*snath-(n.) derived from snethe, meaning scythe, or handle of a scythe

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