Now I plunge my pen against the page and scribble toward a purpose unperceived. For here within my fragile fractured frame, I am no more a poet than a rose; and though the vision I do view, bid beauty to my meaning, my muse is busied elsewhere, nursing other selves. Therefore unfailingly I fall into shadow, baptized by merciless melancholy. Enabled to imbue with silhouette of life a bit of martyred matter, from so faint a slate as this, I would label it as mine (ostensibly): mine. Mine to brag of, mine to burn; but when I feature feelings from the fire, they float away from me, like writing on the water.
    
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