Screen

Sitting tilted postured afront this screen
I see the line blink black and gone across
A blank report yet to be thought or seen
Neglected like a wet rock growing moss.

The essay demands itself to be written
To be born, to enlight, and to be graded.
Merely a slave, I grudgingly be bitten
By bitter whiplashes of time ticking
Of the overseer wall clock's serenade.

Blank screen still mocks. Oh, Puck.
I scribble a piece worthy of muck.

-Wren