A sonnet lost within the ether is
No sonnet at all. That I wrote one must
Be taken on my word. It's my own biz
If I have kept to my vow. Do you trust
Me, gentle readers? Irony:
The lost one did concern the lack of fail
I'd then encountered, smug and full of squee
Within Atlanta's airport. Now a gale
Of error overtakes me, all alone
Within this plush hotel room, Guinness-drenched
And finding that I failed before. I moan
To see I must yet write, though tired and wrenched
From this my cozy hotel bed. Ah, me,
It's heck to have a craft; perhaps you see!


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