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The Howling




Scattered scraps of stories

Tinted tithes of tales,

Half-formed paper lives,

Fiction flights and flails.

Shreds of sweeping stanzas

Tears of patchy passion,

Torn and stapled sagas

Scripts sit blurred and ashen.

Loosely draped précis,

Themes almost addressed,

Hordes of pushy prose —

Ambiguous when pressed.

Sketched out personalities

Characters barely there,

Histories scantly dressed,

Demanding prose doth declare:


Right me,

W R I T E M E!

They, frenzied, cry;

And sometimes . . .

I do.