He will wait ’til called upon entirely
Lifting his weary mind, we catch a wry and hardened smile
Finally. he gets to do what dreams are made of
His forever poetic gloves will lean it out rather proudly against a tower of delivery – the one which gets to decide his every loosened fate
Too little, too late
Insofar as this particular evening goes
He watches everyone’s echoic whisper, maddeningly finds the rovingly fastidious minds which might just falter mid-way through
Realises that sometimes the perfect slew will do just that, lose your far less creative few
Arms flailing by the wayside, typically prepared to slide on out
And can he really blame them

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