Alliteration

To fish, like in a dish, and wish
for words we heard or spurred
on again to fend, amend and send
a verse, quite terse; imburse
the seller for her coster
barrow showman's arrow
wrecked while decked
in bowers of flowers.

A style for versaphile
is hard for bard untoward
to ape, misshape and trape
again; a pen now and then
will trace fast apace the grace
to think in ink
and mark the dark white bark
to chance a glance askanse.

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Come To This

One never thought
it'd be like this:
lost times and battles fought
when nothing ever seemed amiss.
But now a fight engages
which it seems cannot be won
so life which went for ages
is nearly ready to be done.
No more a skirmish to engage
frustration only leaves one rage;
it seems so easy, used to be ~
such simple tasks now beyond me!
The brain plays tricks one nervous now to make
but not the brain at fault, the nerves forsake
themselves to mate and serious take.
The dopamine which once was fine
no longer serves its role
and to the fingers, to the toes,
the system's lost its soul.
Unsteady hand with magic wand
coffee to cup would mate,
but much will land on worktop and
stare up while cup just wait.

Must it really be like this,
it happened oh so quick?
will this poor soul become a fish
waiting for a stick
to get around
on legs unsound,
Or maybe not the pins but the balance
as they stumble against the valance?
Aim for the door, fall to the floor
at least it's not that bad!
Well not so yet but there's time still
for symptoms new to come or will
it stay away; no-one can say
for each it is his own
war to fight and all alone.

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