Flustering notes
and the badly
mannered pen
couldn’t conjure up
a poem.

The white field
of the paper farm
was wide open
to the pensive pilgrims.

Lines didn’t bother
about the sprightly mess
or the ink vomits
this foul-mouthed fellow did.

The crowd of words
do not leave
footsteps for me
to trace back.

Such mother-less brought up
make words—
dislodged of love
Shepard less sort.

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