Run-on lines metrically sound, couldn't be found.
Caesura, miscalculated,
left images obfuscated.
Alone, bewildered, in my attic
I was just churning and churning
All the storm-clouds of cliches.
Poetry was still-born round the corner.
Caesura, miscalculated,
left images obfuscated.
Alone, bewildered, in my attic
I was just churning and churning
All the storm-clouds of cliches.
Poetry was still-born round the corner.
