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To Write InVerse

The blue sky, the bird and the butterfly,
In all their cerulean glory, for my attention do vie,
I strain my brain to not give a grain,
Putting to work all those years of train.

Teasing me with a sweep and caress,
The evening breeze seeks to ease my brows creased with stress.

Yet I persevere, hard and fast,
But I do fear my will won't last,
Alas, I have been at this for the day past.

Yet, to my master, I implore,
The myriad distractions shall you ignore!
Dear, hippocampus , I've a lot of work you see,
Do, I can't , all that which would set my spirit free.

And so despite the finger itch,
I must put in the next stitch.
Yet, I see how you're writing without a glitch,
And now the urge to have me read has reached , a fever's pitch.

Ah well, about physiology, (for now), the devil may care,
For I will pick up that pen and lay my thoughts bare.

Thus,
I write, frigid and terse,
And out flows this rusty verse.



*to all the connoisseurs out there  :I do apologise for this is unintentional.
I very rarely do rhyme,
Not much more than  rosemary and thyme ;
The writing bug , occasionally I choose to nurse,
The result is this piece of poetry inverse! 







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