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At midnight, when the night
hums at the windows
and the desk is littered
with the debris
of many redundant efforts
that all led somehow to this
just this right now
and what is this, a beginning?
an end?
My hands are weak
upon the keys
with the suspicion
that my having something to say
was a faulty logic
to suffer for art is one thing
but to suffer
for a lie
is an absurdity
hunched shouldered
with head in hands now
I carry the weight of a world
that was never real