The Scribbler

Idealism, weaver of myth,

All-knowing, all-seeing,

All-pervading, all-presuming,



A loom carelessly strung,

With broken threads.


The over-trodden,

Creaking trapdoor.


The whitewashed walls,

That scarcely coat the stain, reality.


The countless ghosts who wander aimless,

As the ground falls through beneath their feet.


Idealism, unravels the rope,

Then ties the knot with a hanging suicide,

Of the overzealous, overinflated,

Inevitably flattened self.




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