Here my poetic soul starves
Emotional meat, she carves
Served on my favorite dish
A sonnet made from every wish
My poetic ancestors I eat
I cut my knife into each beat
Rhythm, I taste, so divine
Elizabethan Era be mine
Will I ever be full in the present?
When I yearn for them in the past?
Will my pen lose consistency fast?
When, no one is full in the present.
Here, feminine beauty I pen
In hopes to feed wretched men
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