a wealth of abstractions
churns, like the cogs of time,
forcing through the rust of lost minds.

how can it be that thought swirls,
drifting through the emptiness of heart
in constant progression,

yet I find myself continually lost
and unable to put to words
the truth of my conceptualization?

it is a poetic tragedy,
this calamity of thought.
the creator spends his days alone,
weaving tales of his inability to write.

to what a tender paradox
we poets give ourselves so completely

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