I sat on the table and unscrewed my pen.
The nib was a flattering sword with the strength of ten.
And off I began writing in black, blue and green,
About things I didn’t do and things I’ve never seen.
Then as I wrote, Lost between the sheets,
An insurgent blot arose and wasn’t one who bleats.
And amongst my paper of black and blue and green it lays,
Rebellious, defiant and omits the rays.
To spoil my the beauty of my tales unheard and unseen by me,
It lays there like a blemish and reminds to me.
“To be the mirror is appears to be,
You have to reflect the other and not appear to thee.”
For the hero in my tales ran far and wide,
And just at the end of his name; the inkblot hides.

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