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.