Take the poet to the hospice,
when the playwright leaves the jail,
the vinegar of ingratitude,
he becomes afflicted with language.
A note, not worth noticing, is noted,
and exchanged for a glass of pity,
and the criminals are like a cancer.
They spread rumours of tumours,
and myriad myths of malaise
for their own amusement, the abuse,
obtuse and overlooked, the cacophony
of their chaos; erased in minds
that have long rejected euphoria.
That legend, no longer believed achievable,
that story, that poem, inconceivable.