Here’s the second draft (still untitled), of a sonnet. Notable for actually being a sonnet, whereas I inexplicably left off a line in the first draft.

A call a ring a buzz a beep

A stress demands response

There is none there, as if asleep.

A wall of pain ensconced.

Not pain of knives so keen

But pain of life so great

To wake each day to preen

A looking glass of hate.

The wise man comes too late to aid

And bides his patient time.

To see him fight to keep himself

From wasting every climb.

There is no way to sit in peace

No path forward. No into the east.