Listen to poem:
Alone
"Obscurus fio." -- Horace (65-8 B.C.)
("I strive to be brief and I become obscure.")
Dark. I wait, in
a corner of night
on the edge of fate.
At a worn-out table
with marred veneer,
a blanket of dust
to keep me here,
a burnt-out bulb
for consolation:
closeted in silence.
Bound in desolation.
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