Resolutions can be a real pain, depending on how seriously one takes them anyway. If you, like I do, take them seriously, they have a funny habit of haunting you. Like this one in particular: to perform CPR on this blog!
As that would have it, I’ll say, for the I-don’t-know-what-th time, that I have picked up my quill, dusted it, procured some inspiration from the Muse, and returned to my trade. So, here goes:
Perched as prying pigeons as Day is born, I have gazed, hapless poet, upon you: your quill frail from wanting ink anew, oft as wind weathered your thoughts to bone; given to pity, for you’ve looked lovelorn, I have descended unannounced as dew- to remind you of the plenty in few- and done the duty for which I’ve been sworn.I too, poet, enjoy what you call “Leave” : peaceful sojourns where no work is mourned- far from bards roasting on Emotion’s coals- till to the mount in ink your voice you give and I return as a genie summoned. So, tonight you’ll verse in sultry love calls.
—–Mini-anthology: Hepatica—-
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