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Where's my pen? (The Zejel)












My quill seems always out of reach. Help me understand, I beseech. Darkened pockets devour each.

Momentary spark of genius gone, flitting towards the great beyond, frustration left to dwell upon. India ink freed as blood to leech.

As invisible ink disappears, lost crest – once staged as band-o-leers, for mechanical engineers – Vacation needed – gone – the beach.


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