Sonnet LXIII

This silence fills our lovely, empty void,
a large expanse of molecules of air.
Demonic Martians haunt these corridors
and change us to a trio, not a pair.

Our triangle of four is awkward still.
Compared to five, three’s still a lovely charm.
But six is pushing it; now I will leave,
abandoning this crowd of growing harm.

They chatter ‘mongst themselves, like sullen bees,
dejected, using me as wondrous bait
to get their kind to come and chat with them,
while perishing, my rotting corpse will wait.

I think by far my solitude is fair:
Their buzzing’s so pretentious by compare.