It’s amazing how this pen
Refuses to write beauty
But clambers along clumsily connoting
Rhythms of inexperience
And talents decayed into
Less than half-rhymes
An old quill-shod soldier
Tries to dust off his spiral
To battle the foe of descriptive emotion
He falters in fighting and finds
That his reach is too short
And cries at the awkward awakening
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