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Thursday, December 7, 2023

On The Waste Land, Sonnet #617

One hundred and one years ago

He diagnosed our vertigo.

His scalpel cut beneath the skin

And removed original sin.

He held it in his palsied hands —

The nothing he left on Margate Sands.

It’s only gotten worse since then —

The commandments are ten times ten. 

Dust is fear and the unreal real.

Now it’s not what you think, but feel.

A cacophony of voices

Warns us to forget all choices.

As night falls a whimpered prayer

Leaves the nervous chanting sayer.

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