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We flee to the bedroom, the study, the café;

hounded by foreseen fears.

We don the writer’s robes and gaze pagewards,

deep into ourselves:

upon the mind’s fraught fields in their untamed splendour.

A sea of grasses jostle and jeer, the oppressive mass

of ever-growing anxieties, until we beat them back

with a black ink scythe in hand.

We tread on ink-soaked soil where

once greenswards thrived,

horrifying and natural.

We stain page after page in perilous rhythms,

pining for release, for a tepid moment of control,

lest lasting legacy never flower

as our fears of failure do.

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