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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