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Monday, February 11, 2008

Sonnet XLII

Cold bodies, frozen in Spring’s icy rain.
Each step I take inflicts their dole and pain.
Inevitably my bulky figure tries
In vain to miss the bodies underneath.

Raw flesh, fresh killed and glowing brightly red,
Of quartered worms, too stubborn to be dead,
Their small entrails and innards spread throughout
The road on which I walk, that stark expanse.

To think, these worms once lived and crawled and breathed.
Dull lives were led while elements had seethed.
And sadly others kill them – frigid, staid.
Not knowing that they took their lives by chance.

It's so unfair that organisms are
So staggered, put on tiers of unfair par.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!