[Eŋg]

Sepia-toned
sky-line assigned my scansion for many a poem;
the precipice posed attempts to know why you never left me alone.
Remember the yoke?
Never meant for it to be a synecdoche, no
don’t accept the soul’s ascent and rejecting breaths of empathy, whole
-- heartedly. Pardon me.
My missteps made indents on the yellowing road,
mellow & cold; northern breeze: Boreas eased any scent of the Scarecrow.
Ever sensed all my fear, foe?
If only Aquilon heard, OH! to break the clasps ergo save the chaste Virgo.
Displeasure/grim pressure of an aquiline - curved - nose
-- I remember a yoke
from which I actually learned, though. Graphite, in turn, grows
to scratch, scribe or burn Hope into a landscape that shaped many a poem
of sepia tones.