Aug 26, 2026
A POEM:
The Final Measure I
Do not give yourself
to an audience that will never rise for you.
Their hands stay folded.
Their silence is the only review they ever planned to write.
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Bend, soften, translate your truth
into the dialect they prefer
still the mouths keep moving.
Still the eyes keep measuring.
What matters is the quiet centre
that answers to no gallery.
What matters is the breath
that belongs only to you.
For in the end,
no matter the shape you take,
everyone will always have something to say.
