He finally got it right.

The freshly whitewashed fence reminisced an unsullied spring;
although it was only a delayed monsoon in the offing.

That sickened him & pinned him to the floor in a room full of pallor;
yesteryear's wall-posters surprisingly came to his rescue that were full of splendor.

A sturdy fix with a hero's eye took him back into the times of glory;
only to let it all occur to him that it is all a part of the great grand story.

He sprang back to his feet to reestablish the squandered gaunt;
to go behind the self-inflicted misery to kill the spurious daunt.

He held the pen & it stroked the pristine white sheet
and the fears passed onto it in vain only to become beaten meat.

Ink dwindled in the pen to transpose into grids of letters;
he went on to impel with a hope that it'd mark him as a Man of Letters.

Writing continued.
Voices dissolved.
Purpose under progress.
Insult in digress.

Thousands of unwritten words & phrases in the making;
Millions of unseen plebeian faces in the baking.

To live was to write,
He finally got it right.