Aug 212011
The annotationist's florid inscription confirms:

    His songs were chiseled jagged
    From grey granite crags,
    Not smarmily charmed
    From the skittish scampering of mountain goats
    By afternoon noodlings on his flute.

    His songs were sharp shavings
    Of diamond symphonies
    Not labial dithyrambs lisped
    By moony romanticists.

Here is the rock's heart
Quartered, mortared, and staidly laid.
Here are the stacked bricks of grief
And cold colonnades of ladies' tears:
The grand, airless mausoleum

Of a windy soul.

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