Doubt
Doubt
This poets night is masked in lies
The day that comes my sight despise
Awake to dream to write to scheme
The words I clean refine and preen
Forlorn the days when poets fight
A pen like light revealed the night
Blunt yet sharp both bright and dark
The art alive so real so stark
My back now bent my head now bald
This pen now dull the writing scrawled
Is it empty thoughts that fill these lines
Have we lost our muse our wits our spines
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