a little longer than it takes an artiste,
I am no Picasso
A few scribbles, random lines
and I declare my work of art complete
an abstract art
I have lived far too long,
with the hope, slowly merging
with despair,
that there was an artiste inside me
ready to conquer the world
but the artiste never shows up
he sends emissaries
with letters of jumbled words
vainly apologising
but the letters often seem to dance
on an unmarked grave
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