Every storyteller holds the pencil’s pinky rub writing as a dweller beneath Damocles’ pointy nub The proven method stands: down and up and done romance’s happy hands tragedy’s sodden run Death does only rend all that pen hath wrought if the future pends inconstancy is caught Should the past refuse to strut on this endling stage authors’ thousand paper cuts bleed out through the page Here the poet strips the script for its springs and keys leaving prior, post, and crypt on the vulture breeze
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