Thirty-one pens – inked, obviously
Blotted and clotted ’til such time as he turns out utterly able to find a way
His way…
Blue, red and green
All of the colours of the glorious rainbow…
But no such fruitful picture – rather a reckless endeavour – going on up inside of his aching head
Yet. This. Was. Oh. So. Necessary.
Just one poem and he would finally get to rest relatively soundly
Only, of course, ’til the very next one came pounding upon his door
Pour on in, do your very best to create a din – one which can entice the life from a nearby neighbour or ten
Absolutely sun-soaked aside painly rain-soaked
Go on, choke the aforementioned; own it, let it flow on over
A lonely distanced meadow farm-hand, namely Charlie Consuela, who longs for some kind, any kind, of vigour
‘Til you become his mid-morning thief
Steal his empty soul… go on, fill it!

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