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I used to be a fount
A source from which flowed the finest of prose
A never-ending flow of vivid imagery
Used to be
My spring has been the quiet drip-drip-drip of a well running dry
Has my pen lost its edge
This well-springed source seemingly has been sprung
As if someone tapped in and pulled it all in another direction.
Dimension? Causality?
What happened to the inner poet within me?

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