Dear Rimbaud

my lines have run dry,  though it’s nice to see naivety still runs freely

rimbaud, what did you know?

that the lust of youth was the well’s end, a shallow splash of creative trust spent in the flush of nonage?

surely the itinerant hobbiest should give thanks for the humble crop already harvested, the few successes of art.

why can’t I tap another vein of song-blood? there are far too few feathers in this cap to beat the wings…


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