“I’m not afraid of dying,” Charles said,
“After a while, things take on a repeat.”

he was correct, in that–
every poem written
has already been written
by another
by a greater, or lesser, or indifferent poet
tho likely ungraced, by recognition
tho likely unread
we perish of our anonymity
we perish of our fame
choking upon the gluttons’ epiphany
they are each the same

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I've come to write.

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