Edit after edit I sharpen my blade, dagger raised, ready to plunge into the heart of literary history and leave a scar the shape of my name. I stroll, final draft in hand to show those whose minds will be blown when line after line reaches their ears like the first music, like rain through trees. Rain through trees smears my ink and lines are crossed and my sentences run. I run through the downpour and watch my world crumble as the sodden piece of paper drips black tears to the ground which laps up my poem like the ears it was meant for.
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