That uneven beat
be it wing be it cavitied-muscle
be it tortured man typing note on paper
lost in a backroom.
Not forgotten.
Never remembered.
Insignificant creation spewed
to final recess of mind and ink,
ideas drifting to dissipate, disperse
in never read, never heard,
never-loved obscurity.
A dead forest of butterflies,
a heart never raced,
color and form in a land of the blind.
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