Speck wisps on the flick
Of the lady who carries the air;
She does not care of Time’s tick
And with the end she is par.
It’s the only way the Writer can heal:
He must let the lady visit today,
For she will take the speck and peel
Off all the worry; give it away.
Into the night it begins its flight,
The speck journeys off on lady’s hand;
It does not shimmer to any sight
And it shall never land.
But even when the speck has gone
The Writer will look out once more,
And into mere abyss he’ll adorn
The dust on lady’s paw.