This is my attempt at a sonnet. Following a rhyming scheme has never been a strong point of mine, so I thought I'd try it out. This is a Spensarian Sonnet. If you have a good suggestion for a new title, I'm all ears.
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How could one look upon one’s mind, and ponder?
To think of it as glass: broken, to be repaired
requires a mutual shatter, and chance to wander
in order to see one’s morality, and be scared.
To ask the fair maiden how she has fared,
to see below the neck, yet not the soft
of her breast, nor the weight she has bear’d,
but the bleating heart (held proudly aloft
for closed ears). The racing when she coughed!
The twich and shayke of skin in way of her heart
must be broken, torne, shedded from the soft,
so I can see that beating bleating heart
and tare it from that chest! Before - in kind -
I softly tell her lies, like she is not right of mind.
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Criticism is welcome!



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