A poem of Masters
Tormented until the end, this man –
Who tried to be Whitman, Homer or Faulkner.
But it was Frost who outshined him,
And buried Masters on his own Hill.
Among his own kind -- he judged and condemned.
Must have thought he was better.
But two wives he went through,
Hurting with a touch of masochist,
Leaving a son who will never forget.
But the clack, clack, clack,
Of the passersby speak,
Telling him clearly there’s only crickets.
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