Apocalypse
Poets are architects of souls,
Some with metrical bricks,
The rest with rhythmic words,
They write to have a right.
Let them feign their reign,
And rule over the walls of death,
In the name of a god-given talent,
They write till they die.
For their words carry agony,
Let them murder themselves,
Every time they encounter bliss,
For they write to feel.
The sacred souls shall not love,
For love could contaminate,
Even the purest rivers of our nation,
And yet they ache to write.
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