Saturday, December 27, 2014


So tightly strung and bound in mute surrounds -
As if the world around me wants no sounds -
I twang and echo like a chord upturned
And fade into nothing like failure burned.

My verses never win a critic’s praise
And all my prose is better set ablaze.
Yet here I labour and write ‘til it hurts -
Seeking Lear’s fool, but finding Mistah Kurtz.

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