The robe of the Bishop not flowers
divides at the hem and disappears
beckons to history and to tears
but left without a sound or a care
the ringing of the bells doesn't hear
nor woe of a woman living in fear
onus after onus will appear
while the father looks on from his chair
hasn't been around now for centuries
though succor haphazardly is earned
like I am and must be a poet
no matter what price I pay for it
though I never asked is inherent
the crown on each finger of anguish
and make subordinate by verses
the forces of spring of kindred spirit
bringing by their annoyance a rhythm
break it whether you know how to or not
and shadows let them fall as they do.
take heed my subject and sonnet listen
Falter when it comes to violent end
toward the original intent bend.
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