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The Curse of the Imaginative Poet

I’ve got a hundred poems here
But burden knows they quickly fade
On seeing ink, they disappear
Leaving me unfilled and weighed
So I’ve resorted to a method crude
Of stealing another’s well-worn yoke
To harness my thoughts, to then subdue
This curséd forest of poison oak
For neatly gardened rows, my friend,
Have more use, which I require
My only fear is that, once penned,
These words will lose their passioned fire.
In case this be, just watch my eyes:
For from their shine does truth arise



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