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Another sestina. (Sestina form notes on "Alegria".) This one, mind, is slightly off-form, which strikes me as being either clever of me or really annoying of me, and I'm not quite certain which.

As notes on the origin of this poem: I admit to envy, of someone who still has the ability to faith. And feel, in my own way, a bit flawed and unworthy for being unable to do the same. But the aged eagle, as Eliot wrote, has trouble stretching his wings; and were Icarus to have survived his fall, he might not have cared to let the feathers of his life fall free again.

Some days, it just hurts too much to believe in anything. It's very strange, to know the truth and yet be absolutely unable to believe it.

This isn't actually a proper sestina. I have one departure from proper form, which strikes me as being ironic, and also strikes me as being the only way the poem could have been written. Pedants, please go to hell.

Broken Sestina

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