Rusted

Its been some time,
Since I’ve practiced rhyme,
But now that verse tempts me again,
Not returning might just be a crime,

The exuberance that I had earlier seems to have faded,
My style appears to be a little dated.
Yet in sudden fit of determination akin to that of dogs,*
I am taking up a quest to clean up the mental cogs!

I shall polish the grey cells and exercise the hand,
Even if my words don’t have lustre to reach the fabled Good Poetry Land.

Rust is corrosive, a narcissistic abomination,
It suppresses capability within its encrustation.

Yet rust is that honest villain that reminds me of when I worked not,
And with some laborious scraping, it can be disposed of.

*I honestly don’t know if dogs have sudden fits of determination. They must have some determination though, they’ve lived so long. I mean, Darwin can’t be wrong, so apply weird extension of logic.

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