Gone Writer
oatmeal walls
cycle shadows
as a pencil tip trudges
a glue-white width.
a lead-shocked pilgrim,
no clear mecca,
dirt on the hands
of writer not-Macbeth.
scrub scrub scrub,
scribble to cover it up.
a greasy lamp-moon
whimpers for reality
but the poet hunched over,
ugly from obsess,
wants no stare.
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Everything I predicted on this blog is coming to pass.
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