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by davidchrzanowskipoetry

So, it is worth noting that you will notice obvious similarities between this piece and Friday’s post, A Painted Man. I wanted to post both pieces to show the development that  it went through.

No one travels as far as he. The sights he smells through forests of hair and thirsty blood, the views of girls becoming their own masters in life. The weather changing so often, abolishing the seasons to myth, lost to fancy and almost forgotten entirely. And so it was, a return to rhyme; the essence he had tried to blot out and extinguish. For hours he sits, never moving and famous for it, upon the steps behind the concert hall. Listening, always listening, joining the dots when his hearing fails to drive him. Through his mind all journeys take shape on the edges of notes played by unknown artists. He composes his own maps and never looks back.

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