a sonnet on disquietude

a partial sort of wondering, a loss
of focus, and of balancing too much
at once amid the chaos, and the cost
of seeing what you can’t afford to touch

the stirring of an echo; weariness
that comes in indolence and fading gray,
as autumn wants to come, but bleariness
keeps every bright’ning vision far at bay

and noise, that great invader of the peace
comes in with muddy boots and has its way,
while gentle admonitions’ slow decrease
and disappear, as nothing more than play

  but fall will bring its promise and portend
  the calm that comes when all of this will end

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