Oblivious to all outside my mind,
I sit here, mesmerized, working my pen.
So eager what in my mind I might find,
To do aught else would seem to me a sin.
Unnecessary for you to remind
Me of those who are suffering in pain.
Of pain I know so well, my only friend.
But of such ills I refuse to complain.
For pain caused my Muse to appear again.
She came to me in my most desperate hour.
My only hope is that she will remain,
And allow my once hidden art to flower.
To her I dedicate these solemn lines,
For they were born of her creative power.
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