Sod It

 

a screaming desperation of ceaseless ineptitude

splashing against jetties of endlessly blank paper

to sometimes form a rivulet of softly sodden streaks

reflecting myriad hues of curved and contoured beauty

that dry and crack in swiftly faded wrinkles

and that momentary creative beauty  drives one

to squeeze and wring the waiting shroud

for one more try at word stroked linen