Ten thousand hours,
four hundred and sixteen days,
give or take a few moments.
Simply trudge it out,
just invest the time
to attain Mastery, They say.
They suppose to simply struggle
is to traject along a charted line.
They reduce expressions to increments,
wielding numb equations.
They are the death of art.
They would cast molten intellect
gladly into a stamping mold.
Genius won’t be bottled,
packaged, and distributed.
It is too volatile.
Like gamma rays,
intangible.
If I doodled in distraction
for thirty-six million seconds
would I displace DaVinci?
They are academics.
They are scientific.
They are not Masters.
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