She sits with a ballpoint pen lying rather snug between her manicured fingers – these precarious words seemingly willing to forever linger
Please, don’t be a stranger, she asks
Utterly wanting to sting these lines with breathtaking rhyme
Her one sole problem being an inablity to see it all
A dire necessity to meet her devoted reader right at the piercing middle, to maybe finally get to wine and dine oh so serendipitously with them
When words were never so very beautifully astute in all of their whole life, all in their own right, sprightly to a point of no real return
When a pretty wordsmith – multi-coloured by all accounts – can unequivocally manage to bring it, sing it from these smoke-filled rooftops which indisputably course in and around one such otherwise lonely town
For she need disguish herself no longer

Share and Enjoy !

0Shares
0 0