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All English Sonnets


A riddle is each day, when it starts:
Sometime the day is like a soaring lark,
When situations should’ve made it dark,
The circumstances like the haggard tarts

Should all have etched their faces with deep distress,
But suddenly a flush of happiness,
From hidden sources pours upon their psyche
And makes a laughing stock of all travails.

Some times the day has reasons to be like
The roaring, thundering, screeching mighty gales.
But countless ugly, darting barbed spikes
Are hammered in by every helpful friend,

Into the day’s coffin, No one likes
To say how a day would start or end.

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