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Lament...

I was widely read once.
People read what I wrote,
They fought over the senses my words evoked,
And how best to explain them.
Be it at a Saturday evening dinner,
over wine and cigars,
with blushing ladies and emboldened men,
or at the weekly theatre,
where everything must mean more than what they do ---
I was widely read once.
Then, time conquered, and life contracted.
The novel is now read in commute, on train or bus,
or at night, to lull oneself to sleep.
The written word now conforms,
to a multitude of norms ---
and fights for its voice,
weakened in the everyday clamour
of impromptu authors and hurried nonchalance.
Alas, I was widely read, once.

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