Oubliette
I am not a prisoner bound
I am the oubliette
I cannot be found
Nor can I forget
The proof lies with me
Of what they would hide
What they wish not to be
I mock and chide
I vex them
Oubliette
I am not a prisoner bound
I am the oubliette
I cannot be found
Nor can I forget
The proof lies with me
Of what they would hide
What they wish not to be
I mock and chide
I vex them
Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
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