A Perfekt Sonnet

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Thee gorgeous olde “the”, languages paramour,

or lo as Poe says El Dorado.

Eye the knight’s Dulcinea, the Italian’s Beatrice.

Oh, to summit those sumptuous double peaks,

And trek thru the unseen pass

With bold striding limbs convulsing on dewy earth,

Strike out to seek the secret Xanadu.

To come upon the eternal spring,

And press my lips to the crushing flow.

To let it’s rolling waters washout my tongue.

To lay in the field and nuzzle my face in the blonde daffodils,

And feel petals brush my cheek with sweet fragrant scents.

Oh to not be so much a common man,

But to be the star-cross lovers’ pilgrim.

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