The Critic
E
Eric Cockrell
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with an impotent hand
and a limp pen
he scratches at the scabs
pf the exposed soul...
having no soul
of his own...
to draw from.
no fire in the night
he sits 'neath a neon light
and vomits commands
to the frigid and lifeless...
without shadow, slowly
eaten from within...
ego, and dust!
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