Talk about poets who began
Like the noise at a monthly market,
Now they fade in graveyard silence
Like an over washed pair of blue jeans.
Talk about poets who hoped and hopped
For broad branches like the locust,
Now, hope is a slaughtered ram,
Lifeless like a lonely road.
Talk about poets who black out
Like the end of every scene of a play,
And how they have always hanged down
Like a lightless bulb from the ceiling.
Talk about poets whose careers
Drain like the ink of their pens;
Their chances are as slim as the line
Between life and death itself.
Talk about poets and watery hopes,
Talk about poets and wasted lives,
Talk about poets and tearful anger,
Talk about poets and talk about poets and. . .

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