The Romantic Poets are Dead.

NPG 1857,William Wordsworth,by Benjamin Robert Haydon

A car approached and the process of classical conditioning failed to remember function.
“Turn off your brights!” My brown eyed passenger expressed from the neighboring seat.
Experience birthed a new moment, the driver’s old eyes squinted, strings of light stabbed
His face holding down flesh to contour wrinkles. And the soul, YES! His soul appeared.
Inside a pit of shadow, underneath the chin…just below the Adam’s apple. I squeezed, YES!
I squeezed his soul with my light! I provided a source of goodness to cleanse his appearance.
It was the right thing to do, but my passenger, my muse…she disagreed.

“You’re such an asshole.”

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