To some, writing sucks. To others, dying while writing sucks more. To most, dying while writing poetry sucks the hardest.
It was perfectly apropos that the barely known poet, Clifton Frost, no relation, was found dead at his writing desk face down on a sole sheet of paper, pen in hand. Days before, he had made a formal announcement, a drunken boast at the neighborhood bar that he was abandoning post-modernism for the much more respected classical form. No one really understood what he meant, nor did they care.
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