From my sullied putrefying ink
I do not intend to daint the purity
Of your poetic sink
From whence you write daringly.
I have to admit I am no poet
Although I have scribbled lines
Dented with flaws, even a sonnet.
Apparently, devoid of guidelines.
Writing is no forte of mine
Like red embers hissing
In cold water rine.
I trashed the scribbling.
From my rustic ink
I write like a cast stone
It will land on refined sink
Of poets with literary cologne
And then, I yearn
Like hurrying clouds
To reach out and learn.
Learning without bounds.
@harrywill