Bovary’s Essence

by mudrhetoric

Everything I write is a dead end.
I see only those who came before.
From whom my work is derived.

A romantic notion.
I, as the author.
Wispfully inventing.

What I’ve written is different.
And do it is.
And it is.

I still recall fondly those who exist in memory alone.
That damn whore.
Will outlast us all.

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