Assessment
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
Nemean®