Sonnet from the porch de grief

[fr_defenestrato]

Year of Suck
my eyes are just not drying out today.
the eschaton has early come. kaboom.
at any rate, it seems impending doom
with subtle tones of almond and dismay.
just like that time before, when spalding gray
walked steadily to his ophelian tomb:
how many stories squandered, and for whom
were those belles lettres untold, we cannot say.
and so but how can dave be criticized?
no matter the despair, the angry fists
we want to shake at him, he realized
that all we do is utterly for naught.
in empathy, i go to shave my wrists
in broad strokes, south to north, as i was taught.