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.
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.