To know that the heart you spill remains ungathered, congealing on stone-cold floor, fossilized, touched-up with rude foot-stamps;
To know that Time lies surrendered, sundered, the finer half playing to a deferred response;
To know that Power has been delegated, that it shall revel in cheap puppetry:
A theatre of your heart, the heart turned inside-out, now theatricalized;
To know all this,
To know and yet, to wait on,
To know that Poetry won't suffice, that finally, all shall be trivialized....
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