A man who steps on in and wears a beautifully cut suit; Italian to set him Pavarotti apart; to charm all of these ladies – who sit with cherished wings upon – into affable submission
He’s been meaning to turn out quite special; to settle a few of his innermost scores
To lose the piercingly narrow-minded bravado, to replace it wholesomely with scintillating degrees of trueness which run right the way through
The freshened fabric pressed devotedly against, permitting self-satisfaction
Something he forever dreamed of

The room falls silent
Anticipatory eyes turn and twist toward, await these supposed fleet-driven words
And she pushes herself on up
From the metalled chair which carries her dumbfounding pain within
Tends to her specially cut hair, then softly touches, realigns her glistened pocket pen – the same one where ink transforms itself to imagined gold by those bold enough to let themselves delve
Swallows oh so hard, lends a soft and kind smile to fellow Bards with far more gusto
Supposedly so
The acclaim came when these righteously stored words whispered in all of their perched upon ears

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