Sonnet (‘It sure gets around’)

It sure gets around, our Western hubris.
We even thought the sonnet form was dead.
Whatever needed to be said on this,
Was said before in books we’ve never read.
Yet were there much less excitement to miss
On the air or screen, could we face the dread
That rises up in the silent withdraw,
And of our historical amnesia?
When fear of anarchy becomes instead
A mania for order that same hand
Which writes the law, magnifies the cobra
Of war and crime. It can only expand
What can’t be controlled, and through denial
Of the circle, makes a vicious cycle.

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