A screaming man, stood in the square,
waving documents of hands eternal.
Yet his scream, not that of despair,
a celebration of this forbidden journal.
Civilians sidestepped this curious figure,
muttering of lunacy as they wander.
Though one poor soul, found his glances linger,
prompting the man, to approach said stranger.
‘’This, who wrote? Women or men?’’
‘’I know not, good sir. Why should I care?’’
‘’This is prose, of a poisoned pen’’
The stranger just stared, it was only fair.
For stranger’s response, the man awaited,
alas he erupted, as no retort came.
His actions ensured, freedom – relinquished,
the dagger he plunged, nothing must remain.
Our hero slithered, to the ground,
the stranger now screamed, his thoughts criss-crossed.
He grabbed the man’s wrist, no pulse could be found,
the man lay cold, whilst the journal lay lost.
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