Sick of the sight of it
So many jagged red lines
Or unchanging blue
The spaces, line and font

So many trimmings to force the count

Hour upon hour
Doubt upon doubt
The raw frustration

Only a little thing
Like a tiny tongue ulcer
Or a sliver of glass can give you

It’s a vein of magma
That roils both ways
Too much time
And not enough

Turning to the deadline
The anxious irritation
Now at yourself

Not near a summit
But staving off the avalanche
Those minutes and seconds

And now in one wash
Sent like a spear.

All the best,
J.W.H Hobbs

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