If I ache with a passionate drama,
My mistake is my mellowing comma.
Refutation in quiescent prose is
Lamentation without enough roses.

Melancholy? No, sinfully macabre
Epistolary descended from Hob
Is the soul of the artist cum liar
(To give less seasons no one’s desire).

If I cry with a manic ebullience,
My audience whistles inri crucis!
If I laugh, we are entombed in love.
If I die, they join, holy hand in glove.

Accept no less than howling belletrism,
Fancy’s my forte, genre my prison.
Let my torments never cease, demons flee.
You monsters are muses enough for me.

(Ode of the Romance Novelist)

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