, a sonnet redoublé by Alan Reynolds
i. Just bits you sell in passing as you fall.
Few SM fans extend to drilling teeth,
but you don't stop. It seems to be your call-
ing. I command you: Stop. Come lay one wreath,
just one, to lay your longings out to rest.
They've run from dawn to vespers. There's the bell.
You always ran to put yourself to test,
but shadows lengthen. Longings like yours dwell
too long in skulls like yours, and drive men mad.
El Cid would dream like you, but then would act —
while you but scream in slumber. If you had
his energy, you'd long ago have packed
your weapons, and have died in one last bout.
The theory: Go inside. Grab. Fetch it out.