This poem is not a sonnet. With this phrase,
A literary wedding undergoes
Grim scrutiny: the rhyme-groom's broad malaise,
His five cold feet... it's wicked, I suppose,
To damn the dead, yet with these words, a wedding
Between two halves becomes undone, unkind,
Unsavory, and in the nuptial bedding,
Black insects crawl: wee mites we left behind
That rhyme in clicks and hisses. Greasy little
Debris infesters keep circadian meter
One Shakespearean misstep at a time; brittle,
Rolled-over carapaces switch their feet, their
Ebbed sixth vestigial, foul, and vague. Limbs harden
And compost, sprouting fresh a fleshy garden.
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