Though his story has changed
in the telling,
he wrote it from the heart
abusing the people
in history
he shows a last form of the past
Coding was the word
though color and the world
itching to strain our minds, plying on the white
leavening the sand with our feet
and touching the rejects of royal
worlds of poesy, tainted
walls under the ground and dried skin of the animal
is this the legacy of
the last poets
shaking from their lame
making? Surely noting what they
have written one noticed
the aching heart of that poet
turned to a heady con, ripping
gasps from life and offering the blessed
in a present for the future
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