‘Novel’ Pain

I wasn’t poor, being not rich

Life was fine, thanks to hope

All that changed, owing to muse,

With one ‘novel’ passion pure

Affairs I had, twelve of them

Unknown to the lovers of books,

Cold-shouldered by publishing folk

Manuscripts those twelve make pillows

In my bed to cause nightmares,

With hope dead, I can’t dream

Now I’m poor, robbed of hope.

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