Rimer – The Human Anvil

No poet
Is filled with poise
Nor every hour awake he aches;
For lost love
Or far off islands
Half submerged in the sea,
Neither he weighs in world his price
In self- sought melancholy.
He is a restless hand
With a wineglass filled with ink
Drunk in the thoughts he have
Of the thoughts he cannot think.

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