In Highgate a Grave

Myself, replete with unorthodoxy
On dead poet's advice; wandered here-
In Highgate - a grave; crudely erected.
A reminder of a burden to bear.

Six words; a script of solemn sediment
Abducted and settled these trembling eyes
The apparition's presages present
Left one raptured in a remnant's reprise

We crave the fantasy of fruition
And Leave memories by casting stones
Until our success is superseded -
Our wisdom: the wind's whistle over bones

Yet, if only the salted earth I've sewn
I am ‘An Artist. More Loved Than Known.'

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