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Sonnet #2My heart feels empty, isolated and
Barren. Hands quivering and envious
I find myself marooned in a strange land,
Throbbing heat Lord knows what Celsius.
Begrudged feet trundle foreign fields without goal
Extraneous sun ostensible known
Seeming familiar as the hollow hole
Now perforating my soul as I feel so alone
Imperious heat striking impulses
And exasperating my affection
As my arduous heart pulses
Intensely, reminisce imperfection.
Omit historic misapprehension
Thou art no longer my soul’s extension
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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