Waste
Brows furrowed a poet writes
Beads of sweat pearched on the plows of his forehead
Quill twitching on paper
Writing, composing a masterpiece
Art to never see the light of day
the staccato notes of the parchment crumpling
sound
millions, wasted in that ink
perfect poetry proctured by a perfectionist poet deemed imperfect and improper by the procurer.