The contumacious objector

All my words are of a rebel
All my aesthetic senses
Shriek against this preoccupied design;
All my poems with their
Mallarmean white spaces and line breaks
Nothing but nothing else,
Insurrection against
The prevarication of sense

I trudge through this zombie-land
The only sentient being
Looking down upon the
Blind and deaf
Throwing their lives at your feet
For you who do not be.

I am the Prometheus of this age
The last contumacious objector
Your shrine of love would never be built
With the rest of my remains.

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