Sonnet

Once upon a many fingered season,
Full of coal and groaning tide,
The last land went amess. There was no reason
For this mess, except to hide

The dullness and the lethargy w/in
Its hallowed halls and hollowed hives –
Where minds grew dull and dreams turned flat and thin
And never changed their dreamers’ lives.

O, the shame of machinated hands!,
Which cannot but trace o’er the oldest tracks
Of sheepish, stump-eyed, pig-led bands
Of dogmatists and cataracts.

The globing sphere of technocrated steel
Has been corrupted full; –
We are a-wheel’

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