A million such words in a hundred different positions
Nestled rather unforgivably throughout this house
A mouse, he’d probably think that he’d met his absolute match, regards messiness at least
Not entirely his kind of feast but on we shall go
The affable wordsmith, wholeheartedly, painstakingly, in it to win it
These hundred different positions will need to be altogether enticed
Sliced then diced… hmm, half might be nice
‘Til falling upon the perfect poem
Honed, perhaps serendipitously preened
To a point of supposed outright glory
Albeit for one eye and not ten
Never, ever so much as ten
This goddamn pen just won’t lend all of it to me
Not right now
It writes then flees, rather akin in many a way to that lonesome mouse who soon set his heart upon becoming trice
All of these rampant mice and no such poem to speak of
What in the name of God have I been doing with my time!?

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