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The words filled on this page make up this verse,
Yet the leaf, former potent, is now worn,
Words tattooed eternal, for better, for worse,
Vain; it casts its worth to praise new adorn,
This verse matches not the budding love or rage
Of fear, or grief, or greed, or other zeal,
Or potential of beauty on blank page,
Further buried is art before concealed,
As this page is stained its value is spent,
Foolish waste of the prospect singly used,
Page raped by ink and pen without consent,
So harshly struck it cannot heal its bruise,
But the miser is poor if none is spent,
So with no regret I withdraw my lament.

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The following comments are for "Another Sonnet"
by Ilan Bouchard

Not sure how I posted this twice, especially since it has a different title. Oops.
I think I meant to cut and paste a different sonnet, but accidently pasted this one twice. Sorry.

( Posted by: Ilan Bouchard [Member] On: October 28, 2004 )

Apologies to all who are wasting time with this again.

( Posted by: Ilan Bouchard [Member] On: October 29, 2004 )

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