Borrowed words are the poet's palette,
or more like pieces of molten thoughts hammered with a sensual mallet,
the notes of life's emotional score,
oracular themes spliced together from the heavenly editor's floor.
A synthetic biographical vista,
hiding details in his code finer than an arista,
unreality with this world concreated,
the truth with lies hybrid mated--
he pumps his scribal swamp gas,
and by honors of his occupation convinces the world his words have somewhere come to pass.
In his basement scriptorium,
he fashions bejeweled prose that unwary readers will buy at at a biblio-emporium;
he seeks the profit only of mesmeric praise,
the accolade of peers whom he's spun into a hypno-poetic haze.
His, the dissembler's most noble art,
verbal aesthete wielding a pen so clever, so smart:
but the truth in time will of him honest confess,
that the glitter of his lines was gold only by the critic's whimsical guess.
Aha! What your eyes have now curious read,
you'll never know that my hand composed with presumption dread;
still music reached into your imagination's hungry ears,
and now comes the reward of hoi polloi's pedestrian cheers.
And so, the tide of my words comes in once more,
soaking the pilgrimed feet of those who stand looking on a literary shore,
carrying out to the sea of dreams their unanswered plaints and longings,
that by my myths I can with letters somehow right all the world's wrongings . . .
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