The Masterpiece
Page after page up in flames
of his first and last novel
For he just couldn’t get it right
though he tried with all his might
Canvasses of nocturnal life
he slashed them with a knife
For he couldn’t create them ex nihilo
couldn’t quite capture the moon’s pale glow
On the cusp of suicide
for all else he had surely tried
At last the searcher realized
The only masterpiece man needs
is the one recorded high upstairs
in ‘His Book of Good Deeds’
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