Writer’s palette



Don’t relish too much the

Sweetness of his prose.

For though his pen can paint

A calligraphy of arts

On the plate, the meal tiered exactly

Like a castle’s keep, the sauce

Delineated à la mode in a drizzle

Of colours to delight and tantalize,

When the pen runs dry, scratching out

Its hunger, and he licks the dagger

Of the nib to whet its appetite,

Whoever the chef, whatever the palette,

On the tongue all ink tastes black.




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