Yearlong Sonnet-- Iteration 49

Familiar material, that loss of gender distinction;
It doesn’t posse up a quaker state, or opening scene.
But if i manages to scribble out a swan
song, it’ll sway the alive or flotsam of distraction!

Fake moustache that skips between multiples:
placid ad, chaotic parts, turn off the brain.
A would-be kidnapper, sun-tanned brown,
holds a load of gimmicks in her trembling mandibles.

Leap from the jumble of poetry to the ground;
"If i be snow, be white, how many lines are slain?
If hairs be wires, grey wires growl in acid pain."
It’s not the one where she jumps from the grind.
It’s the one where i’m frozen in a word-slum.
Blamed, craned, only in their game (ahem) a pawn

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