Reign VIII

Only in blindly insisting you weren’t
A sellout did you give up and proclaim
Your turning, your protean self, about-
Faced, crippled and lame, broken and shamed.
For every starving artist, I have known
One well-fed: a singer-psychologist,
A poet-professor, people who owned
It, blending their art and artifice
In equal measure. Poor as I am, I
Do not starve, for I am rich in spirits.
Narcissism and rage are my bread, my
Water my own voice and all who hear it.
Even if I starve, my muse will still sing:
“No gods, no masters, every man a king.”

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