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All English Sonnets

She launched herself upwards in her haste,
Got tangled in the branches and the leaves.
Her effort ended in a bruised waste.
With downward hanging head she sorely grieves

With more than wounded limbs bruised flesh,
Under the spell of soul destroying blues,
Which have spun a byzantine mesh,
Around her person without any clues.

For coming out of it and extricate
Her mind frowning state and privacy,
As all the indicators indicate,
It merely is an old woman’s tale.

That opportunities, once only knocks.
That chance not taken , future chance blocks.

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