Formless Sonnet, Concrete

May I sit smelling piss

for not much longer now.

The din inside my head grows fierce

chiding fruitless vows.

 

Perchance to see a leaf up close,

to wick the morning dew.

I flit about subsuming woes

as concrete hardens through.

 

Can desperation spur an act

when action is to slow?

I fear I may abandon tact,

deliberate to go.

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