Ace Writ

 

I wake at dawn, with rosette cocks,

And fill the morn, with incessant knocks,

My soul is worn, with varying stocks,

The joy is gone, the world amok,

 

I take to pen, like the obscure to mist,

A silent Zen, conjurer of twists,

I feel it wrenched, from o’er my grip,

But I can tell, I thus resist,

 

It foams like waves, at bays and coasts,

And damns these graves, to burn and froth,

The incline’s brave, it warms these plots,

But soon it waves, and then backdrops,

 

I compile thoughts, and journal pits,

Deranged types sort, and hazed with tint,

I mix-match dots, by epitomes wit,

And live this course, it’s so Ace writ