Ptero Dactyl

Vanishing syllables moving across in formation
trying to march to a rhythm while keeping the blues
Playing their parts, some are stressed, as befitting their station,
some, nonchalant, couldn’t care less, use any excuse.

Be it a limerick, ballad, rondeau, or a sonnet
Writ for a lover, a penny, or just on a lark,
dwell on it, polish it, pray to it, worship upon it.
Nurture it, carefully blowing to kindle its spark.

Do not despair when the words hit a bump or a stumble,
or if your inkwell refuses, the ink running dry.
Failure’s a start, a prerequisite. It’s a preamble,
but to succeed, the cliche says that first, you must try.