Stupid one

Brother, Brother, you might as well paint
a big white x on his back:
he’s up for the usual ambush
by invisible bullets of Mnemosyne
whatever he has said & written
no one remembers O fatally forgotten.
Why continue with this wicked pace
Early morn there he is with the pen
& bond paper to record what he dreamed
of fever, ghosts, the footloose women
all the unspeakable that Time brings
Who cares if one’s in imagined pain?
Yup, yup, he’s target for paper assassins
No one would bother, it’s all & nothing
People shall carry on with busyness & whims
It’s his own lookout, who tells him to blink
think of him who labors through the night?
The world would live on, mindless of his flight.

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