Proof that even improbable is feasible
that a poet yet lives in this dried husk.
Inside he who scribbles shitposts, dawn to dusk,
a brain yet from which sonnets are squeezable.
Yet no matter my words, is there an audience pleasable?
Least I pray that a few are appeasable.
So many wring emotions from words, as if on a hunt.
Forgive my candor I don’t mean to sound blunt.
See? Above you’ve seen proof time is freezable.

So allow me a moment or several of humor,
for this world is too dry and painful,
and we should hold close what may cause us to cry,
lest hatred grow in our hearts like a tumor.
Let not too much your heart find disdainful
as we enjoy our moment between the earth and the sky.

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