There is a rumbling, a fountain of
drive forming beneath the skin, willing
to erupt, to explode outwards from this
wizened form, brought to gnarl by lost
confidence and great attacks.

Time spent doing is time utilised,
do not berate nor lambast for those
moments where none passes by, save for
the idle whists that fill the mind,
it all counts towards something.

Allow this spout to blossom, flow
your tears the author laments, a state
marvelled through mirror stares, your
fingers criss cross like frantic
dancers creating a partnership.