Auto writing Ghazal

The calendar date, red-inked into alpine white vellum: a blood-letting, a quilled line. Old ducks [politically incorrect] featherless, waddling like myself, fall neatly into line. "It is time," I say to my left-brain, my right- hand, "to auto write a poem in couplet line." In my excitement I look toward newborn paper and begin reworking the previous line. My face soften, my fingers relax. Another deception blotted off the eternal timeline. Time marches on ... or, onward and upward! "Upward?" the poet asks. "Oh, what a line!"