There are times I sit with pen in hand,
staring into the blank heart of the unmarked page,
as if it were a pond and I—a boy with no fish to show.

Words won’t come, as stubborn as a mule,
having wandered off to some far corner of the farm.
I am left with the rustle of the wind,
the idle chatter of the keyboard ticking time away.

Yes, in an old-world style I toy with rhymes,
abab or some...

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