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"Who has ever touched the well of ink with no fear that his thirst will stay insatiable?"
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Published 6 years ago
Some certain ransom in this agony,

To write, to tell, recount, recite…

That majesty of lying and signing that purified fraud a story is,

How shameless could be asking a poem ask you things instead of me,

And who is me?

Some certain freedom in this rhapsody,

To touch, to smell, to taste and bite…

That alchemy of hiding by carrying that glorified mask a hero is,

How aimless of me asking ten pens what they’ve sensed that I could be,

And what to be?

Some certain wisdom in this parody,

To cry, to run, to fear then fight…

That anarchy of colliding then dividing the fortified truth a legend is,

How blameless a sea that grows long so where the line is you can’t see,

And what to see?

Some certain treason in this remedy,

To love, compose create excite…

That calvary of denying that undying yet mortified lure a rhyme is,

How flameless a poet without his grief to fuel a spell and set him free,

And who is free?

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