I wrote a sonnet about a virus,
A King of Kings on Gothic papyrus.
What does a germ have to do with free verse?
Contra to freedom, the Fed is a curse.
I never write about how nature tries
To uplift sad souls or brighten dead eyes.
I write aphoristic poems, so I’m bad,
Because telling the truth makes Sion mad.
My formal verse, The Lyric won’t publish.
That’s what I get for not writing rubbish.
The Titan Whitman mimes Atlas schleppin’
A Coney Island Mind bioweapon.
As Frost emotes within ancient forests frozen,
Ozymandias travels his road not chosen.
