I have bled my spirit’s arterial flow
to the point of collapse,
I vomit the bile of my soul
sometimes, to my own disgust
but, I shall never regret
one dot or tittle, dark
or bright, poetic
or prosaic

because time begs it of me,
a clock ticks though
a dirge must wait, I sigh
fevered cantos

there are
volumes yet, to be
shared.

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