He and I, we simply align ourselves
at opposite ends of a path.
We disguise ourselves as amiable strangers
(though I would know him better if I asked).
The pain of his gist was his least obvious gift,
and a profoundness shortly occurred to me.
Pulling his legs from the clay field drifts,
with sensitive voice, he shortly demurred to me:
“In my sorrowed mind, I wander blithely
around my own mangled tale,
writhing between eloquence and ignorance
— to what avail?
“I wash all my scars until the old blood runs fresh.
and the longitude and latitude shudders my flesh.
I tinker with the dams that hold back my prose,
shocking my ears from so many sharp blows.
“And you, sir, you stand there, unequivocally calm,
my heart blisters over, and you hear it as balm.
My travails and hardships leave your disposition unchanged:
surely he exaggerates, or in…
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