by Lizardin Bain

The death of the artist

Delighted was the selfish heart,

When he was writing;

Ignoring bleeding fingers

To edit and create the art,

Which took away the breath

of caprice taste.

The heart was gleeful

But unfair,

Demanding more than he could give;

and abruptly

The end was near –

The heart destroyed. The heart was weak.

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