The preliminary overture gently rises,
like the sunrise on a barren landscape.
A shallow ascend, then decend.
Succinctly bare, barely gradiented.
The finale is a crescendo of brisk chaotic strokes,
unwaveringly wavering welteringly,
in every whhhich whhherever way.
The breeze feels like an ant running along this molehill.
No one wants to reach this weepy crescendo,
but the pores have been irritated for far too long.
Now pink, inflamed and broken.
Broken too, the willpower to stead the steady drops.
Like a gradual pan from an unidentifiable object,
the blurry edges start to form a vague metaphor.
Decend, crescend, lament.
A fresh spritely midge bite has formed.
An army of ants is sprinting along this juicy plateau...
It's time to adjust into another seat,
I can now see Arthur's Seat through the semi-opaque curtains.
But perhaps all this adjusting and re-evaluating is the same as scratching that midge bite.
An unattainable relief, instead granted a dead eyed limbo.
Keep scratching, keep re-adjusting, keep prolonging the inevitable,
wait for your jobseekers allowance to come through.