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.