18-03-2026, 01:08 PM
Sonnet 1
By but a glance upon thy chosen name,
I see the mark of engines wrought by art—
A language forged in cold, mechanic flame,
Not born from unaided human heart.
Such craft is barred within this hallowed space,
Where thought must rise unprompted, pure, and free;
Thus must thy thread be stripped of pride of place,
Removed from sight for all the forum’s plea.
To “slop” consigned, where errant works reside,
A lesson rests for those who would ignore
The rules that here in quiet strength abide,
Unbent by clever tools or borrowed lore.
Let future words be thine, and thine alone—
Or else be cast again from forum’s throne.
By but a glance upon thy chosen name,
I see the mark of engines wrought by art—
A language forged in cold, mechanic flame,
Not born from unaided human heart.
Such craft is barred within this hallowed space,
Where thought must rise unprompted, pure, and free;
Thus must thy thread be stripped of pride of place,
Removed from sight for all the forum’s plea.
To “slop” consigned, where errant works reside,
A lesson rests for those who would ignore
The rules that here in quiet strength abide,
Unbent by clever tools or borrowed lore.
Let future words be thine, and thine alone—
Or else be cast again from forum’s throne.
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