Like a pattern of endless Celtic knots,
my configuration has become entangled
in itself, resulting in a freeze.

Wrapped and snared in the ancient monk's design
with no beginning and no end, errors abound
like red autumn's falling, swirling leaves.

Rebooting would lose the hard-won data
thus far entered and part collated. It is death...
and it would bring a certain ease.

If I shut the system down, letting go,
I would transgress. A fiery sword would cut the knots -
leave me trembling, naked, on my knees.

Memory holds. I, the recipient,
am in error. New messages repeat the old:
never are the gods easy to please.

In last night's dream, I received
a signal, plainly given,
its meaning very clear.

But in my dream, the giver
was a twister, one whose words
never mean what I hear.

But it's my dream, so I am
both giver and receiver -
what does that mean, my dear?

Before I can go to bed,
something must be plainly said:
challenge me not to rhyme
at such an unsuitable time!
My brain's all a-whirl,
my thoughts all a-twirl
and, like a piper, thirl
with grace notes a-flutter.
A mind can melt like butter
if unkindly made to go
not through rain and snow,
but through dodgy rhymes
at inappropriate times,
when it should be deep,
wrapped
soundly
in a
peaceful
sleep.

Is there a cure
for compulsive rhyming?
What is the lure?
Or is it just timing?

The later the night,
the more silly my rhymes.
It's really a blight -
they're not even worth dimes.

For headaches one takes pills,
for scurvy one eats limes.
There are cures for many ills,
but what does one do for rhymes?