I built a muse to craft my blues,
Filled up and gilt with craven views--
Some mewling trick to fill the space:
Spending intellect to steal a face,
And mask a casket made of air--
Who ventures out to see, or trace,
On the still-indentured, human face,
A match unmasked, or my despair.
© Copyright 2017 Tom H Hart. All rights reserved.
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