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Writing As Fast As Time

Writing as fast as time

Gives precedence

To empty rhyme


Time is much thicker, singular, sad

Something not to be had

But to be

And every writer tries it

The stream, the

Screaming fit


Gone already, as fruitless as

Catching your breath

It proceeds

What as formless as could be?

Or ‘free,’ we must grasp

As catching our breath

We gasp

But there back broke, flee

I never wrote


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