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.



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