27 April 2015 (WIP)

At last have I
the pain to fill
the hearts of Keats,
of Darcy, Fitz.

Oh, such pains to
fill the Turners and
Nichols – this is not
a stong of loss, but
a product of art.

I am part of the greats,
of doing before thinking
and throwing in my soul the
heart into worlds it need
not know.

Now I’m one of my heroes,
an Austen, a writer, a player.
We’re all equal and all
it needed was mt soul to take.

A Bronte, a Welsh,
a Vizzini – we’re all one now.

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