And here I am running out of ink.
My study does well to confine me
with its oaken, tattered shelves;
I’ve come to scribble, leaving the rain alone outside
And it’s gone and got itself lost.
I never let a coin drop without
it having first been flipped.
I often choose the inveterate echo
over either shiny side.
My thinking cap is brisk and knowing
full-well of its poisonous nature
I don it daily.
It is a bit tight, but
It suits me.