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What are we, if not amazing words to unspoken stories? Esoteric combination of human ideation gave us imagination to inspire inspiration, aspire to acquiesce divination and further this – the complex, uniqueness of our pen. To the poets, contemporaries which write nothing of substance or echo what wasn't – you, the decay of thoughts on page, spec of Faraday constant spark which unknowingly feeds the rage, of those of you who are great. Why do we choose to revel in nonsense, an arguably pointless flight of fancy? Predilections for Nancy Willard's childish prose, neglectful of Bukowski's stoicism and hard road – gave to us abdication of modern sensibilities. To the poets, who yield to perceived truths – Emily Dickinson, is not in you – The trembling hand of Poe, will not guide you – Strike your name into stone, weather the sea of time – survive and write something worth being alive. |