I sweat, out of some frustration
The drawings don't make any sense
Yet I feel that scalp point sensation
Other woods, it seems they are less dense
The pencil is not driven, leastways
Not across the sketching paper plane
Instead I am distracted, same as ever was
The forms, the lines, the oddly triangular frame
My curves are corrupted, repetition
Cannot be repeated, seated here
By the windswept window, definition
Of lines now less well defined
And she who reads the tea-leaves, she says
All is well that is well, yet, yes yet
Not everything can be explained
The rain, though transitory, is near on to blame
