The poet rides alone and hard along the alchemic trail,
trapped inside their own construct,
a perpetual motion machine of the edit.
But there comes a point where there is no more chaff to discard,
no more lead to be sacrificed in the crucible of revision.
There comes a time when they must announce to the world,
"Here it is - my newborn poem."
And the world more often than not replies,
"Ahh. Aren't they...oh! Erm, such an interesting face."
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