(untitled prose poem)
Now things daily fail, wit droops downward and eloquence evaporates before the dark—where oh where is our sweet poet of rhythm with philosophy that satisfies the intellect? A mind adorning logic with imagery picturesque; of metaphor to luminous effect—someone disposed to clothe ideas in splendid dress, saving grace towards a liberation’s truth—an ear fine for its meter, imaginative and soothing in affect—a vision delivered with pathos in the manner of artists speaking after prophets; someone for when it’s impossible to rewrite history we already know, to compose light we still must learn.
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