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- Her carriage
- Awaits,
- By fresh-hammer'd gates...
- The boon
- To mediocrity's labours:
- That I might know
- Her truest soul-
- For only I to savour.
- So I split the oak,
- And I saw'd the ash,
- For pittance in paltry cash,
- Till all I'd built
- Was an effigy,
- To parent
- A dirty pile of ash.
- I cast all into the cinders,
- Sprouted wispy whiskers,
- Turned my back against the breeze,
- To drink
- A bitter antidote-
- The quelling of my unease.
- Yet, the truth
- Was never
- So well-hid,
- That I could not dip out and in
- Upon a whim,
- In daydreams,
- The other life, unlived.
- Her carriage awaits,
- 'Neath a veil of decay,
- Upon cinder blocks
- In my front yard,
- To be passed
- By the blinding headlights
- Of a billion
- Speeding cars.
- That I could think
- My heart, my art
- So singular
- And apart,
- But, rather,
- You could take your pick:
- Any one of a billion
- Fading stars.
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