The wit maniacal poured so darkly from his veins, born of the richness unraveled, by insanity’s black gift; it hovers, as the genius vagabond, watching from the edge of a plastic crowd...a crowd, wrapped in the pretense, of their own, sweet delusions of worth.
They’ll die one day, in golden ditches, but ditches they are, none the less, obvious, forgotten and lost...’The Vagabond’, soars for the sands of one breath, and is remembered, for an eternity of true human thought...’tis a very human wit, that elevates the Duck, o’er the Swan.
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©David Nickle Read 2015
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