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Poetry

the scholar in the war

the scholar in the war

 

wrapped    over

 

desk

 

 

 

thin

 

with artificial eyes

 

 

society has sharpened him

 

to

a

very

fine

 

point

 

 

 

the scholar in the   war

 

 

he draws furiously

his

sword-words

he

trembles all       over

 

the drug smell of correction fluid

 

hangs

 

 

who would have suspected

you would have found

 

a man

 

caught somewhere

amongst all this

 

paper

 

 

 

breathless

he seems

 

yet

 

in the empty screen

he huddles into a cry of war

and i can hear a scratching

at my ear

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