Sonnet #32

We used to write for pleasure, then for glory
We wrote to live forever as achitecure inspires;
As generals and warrior kings only live inside a story
And the poet’s name will sing above the hearthfire.

We used to write for money, too, in fact
The little slips of paper in the post
The clear demarcabfuscation via contracts
A little check for beer or baby clothes

We wrote these letters to history and time
We wrote to speak the god inside of all
We wrote all sins to heal them in a rhyme
To rebuild what was possible from falls

Foolish we, for robots hunt as firebirds
Malware, spyware, spiders eat our words

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