Waste

Brows furrowed a poet writes

Beads of sweat pearched on the plows of his forehead

Quill twitching on paper

Writing, composing a masterpiece

Art to never see the light of day

the staccato notes of the parchment crumpling

sound

millions, wasted in that ink

perfect poetry proctured by a perfectionist poet deemed imperfect and improper by the procurer.