"Too many sonnets", growls the curt rejection.
Too many sonnets? Can the news be true?
This polished work is workshopped to perfection,
a classic form recast to something new.
But still, I'll keep them coming while I'm living,
and when I'm old and sinking into death
I'll write a final sonnet of thanksgiving
and gasp the sestet in my final breath. And then in death, what nightmares may inspire? Within the circle of the realms infernal reserved for sonneteers, I'll write in fire to send to "Styx Review", or some such journal,
and if there's surplus sonnets there in hell...
well... then I may compose a villanelle.
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