Idylls Of Theocritus

I thought I truly knew these days;
Until today, this moment
When the pen seizes to flow,
and all the options are exhausted
When I imagine the wider-margins
between this persona
and the tomorrows envisaged

When I involuntarily snap my pupils;
the watery fluid oozes
with timed-competence
like that of an assassin

I thought I knew these days until today,
this same day
When the Idylls of Theocritus,
and the anonymous literary devices
walk rampantly in my dreams
like the orders of denouement
or perhaps
in Julius Caesar;
when Marc Antony referred to Brutus,
as being an honourable man

When the aesthetic distance between
the tip of my pen to the depth of my conscience
become feasibly unidentified

(Miles apart)
When I begin to value the written
texts as eclogues of shepherds
or perhaps trochaic of Hiawatha
but in a jinxed-connotation
I let go off indecision

I thought I truly knew these days;
Until today
When I lean towards my ‘weaker’ hand
Pyrrhic & anapestic arts render the best imageries
I ought to yield to

When I finally thought I knew today;
I realise that ;
One step at a time

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