"frumpy" poems
As Autumn approaches,
my mind drifts to the decaying leaves,
Halloween,
the cool, crisp breeze...
The communal understanding that eternal heaven comes only with
death—
that Summer must always go.
And that beloved Autumn must always usher in bitter Winter who lays the foundations
for an exalted Spring.
Oh hell...I hope for a long Autumn, I want to make it stay—
like a host who lectures his party guest for too long
so he won't look at his watch.
Oh how I need the frumpy sweaters and pumpkin heads on window sills!
Oh how I need the billowing steam from milky beige cocoa,
the misty light rain in the gray of the morning,
the high canopy of fleshy red flakes!
And echoes of children laughing as they eat candy on their way home from trick-or-treating—reminding me that life can be enjoyed
with sacred rituals and good company.
I need Autumn personified—
a cool-headed, crackling-fireplace-girl.
A quilt-maker, cloud-gazer, two-dogs-and-a-cat bookworm.
Someone comforting like oatmeal.
Someone surprising like the first day of school.
I need Autumn.
I need Autumn but it never seems to need me too.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
He wrote in the mornings, she recited to him at night,
He always made breakfast, she made dishes disappear,
His garb was quite frumpy, and hers, made of spun gold,
He struggled with fashion, song birds would dress her,
He thought his poems looked best in moving candlelight,
She made all the fires and lit candles with her eyes.
Once, he was embarrassed and said to her,
'How can you live like this with me in a hovel?'
She said it reminded her of Plato's Cave.
At readings he looked out and saw sinking eyes,
Now he has her read all his poems, it works
Wonders that way, and after-parties are strange,
Everyone keeps staring and asking for her
Name. She gives cryptic answers and winks
At him. The poet was running out of words
And thought his days with her were waning.
But she said her heart was kept in a precious
Box of symbols, of words, only he could write.
She said that it was written in the sky, that poetry
Was dying and that he was the cure. He told
Her that the stars were lost at night, and fading
While she sparkled unfailing, and many times
They tasted each others tears, many times
The world stopped spinning, he knew
It was her, she felt it was him. To all
Others, their one bedroom flat was small,
Yet to them, it was the Palace Athene.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
Elaine folds
and unfolds
a flowered
handkerchief
in her lap
in the bus
(the school bus)
her sister
beside her
talking to
her best friend
Elaine knows
the boy John
sits near by
she can see
him if she
leans over
the seat top
but she sits
where she is
feeling down
and depressed
she'll tell John
when she can
what they say
the others
Old Frumpy
they call her
her hand smooths
the flowered
handkerchief
in her lap
corners neat
edges straight
it is John's
handkerchief
he gave it
when she cried
the last time
it was clean
and unused
when he gave
smelt of soap
and fresh air
it absorbed
her wet tears
when held there
and John said
at that time
the kiss was
meant to show
what I feel
and she can
(if she sits
quietly)
feel it still
on her lips.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
The grey fox barks
every evening, echoing
the perimeter of its
territory.
The red fox cozies up
next to the brook house
making a friend with the
inhabitant inside.
The black bear sits
its frumpy *** on the
porch of a new homestead.
The trees bend towards the
Earth. Reminding each creature
of its transient position.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
♀ ♀ ♀
Hey you! In the vagina-hat,
frumpy feminist dressed in pink;
we men (what do you make of that)
would love to know just what you think.
We've heard of "ass-hats", anyway.
But we can see the other side:
it's orificial bombs away
as bridegrooms now behold the bride.
Gynecology on parade:
how weird. You think it makes your point?
It's more a vaginal charade,
and promises to disappoint.
You say your cap evokes your *****
feline foolishness, I say.
It's cat in bag when fems get fussy
showing patriarchs the way.
Show us yours and we'll show our own.
Well actually, it's kind of cold
to whip it out right here downtown...
We'll grant you this: you chicks are bold.
Your choice-aborted progeny,
disposed of in the clinic's trash,
might blame you for misogyny—
though spared the curse of diaper rash.
We'll keep abreast of all you do,
chanting, marching, fists in air...
yet still, you seem a silly crew
aflush with zeal (and ***** hair).
But must it always come to this:
biology devoid of God ?
Exteriorizing, hit and miss,
the secrets of your aging ***
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:42 AM UTC
There are many ways to break
a person down: whether persistence,
verbal or physical brutalizations.
The worst type, by far, is the quick
lash of the tounge. "That makes you
look frumpy..." Or "You've really gained some weight." Things she
categorizes and compartmentalizations
into foreign areas of the mind.
Weight is a shallow, low blow, she thought. However, the words slice
harsher than any insult she's ever heard. ****** Ugly ***** Lonely big girl. That's the garbage thrown to her.
What she needs is reassurance. Affirmations--pretty and pathetic--
that she should be comfortable in her
own flesh. The very body she breathes in and carries is the one to be loved.
Size 2 or 22, pants and dresses don't immortalize the true beauty of being. They don't capture the heart and soul. But most important of all, they have no ******* impact on the radiance one emits.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
In the shadow of the great oak tree
In a place not for you and me
Found only with great luck
Lived Riley the river duck
You see Riley was frumpy
And oh so grumpy
How she was, was how she preferred
To the point that it was absurd
None of the other animals seemed to care
That she was always holed up in there
Wallowing in a puddle, her thoughts in a muddle
And her dress, in such a mess
On one brilliant summer day
With the sun shining so bright and gay
You see she always thought that she had such rotten luck
For Riley yet again was stuck
For what pickle is so fickle
To make that duck, stuck
What thought so meek
To make this situation so dire and bleak
While all the other animals were outside playing
Riley was inside praying
That she could come out
But the problem was that she was filled with doubt
One morning was particularly glorious
And Riley was oh so furious
That she dropped all her doubt
And she tried for the first time to come out
She stepped out and ruffled her feathers
The power of the sun severing imaginary tethers
And a smile spread across her face
For she realised how beautiful was this place
For now that she finally stepped out
Of her excuses and self doubt
All the animals greeted her with such zeal
She realised that this must be how it is to finally feel
Now a few days later
According to the official dater
She wasn’t grumpy, she wasn’t dire and she wasn’t a bore
Riley wasn’t frumpy any more
Everyone around her loved her, they couldn’t get enough
For what a special duck she was, being holed up had made her tough
Now Riley had finally learnt to be happy and be free
And there began the jovial tale of Riley of the Great Oak Tree
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:52 AM UTC
No boy will ever
want to **** me
if I forget
to put on makeup
in the mornings
lips red as Eve's forbidden fruit
succulent enough to
bite
tongue
devour
go down
cuz my nose don't
look so My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding
mountainous-side-profile
when it's caked in highlighter
if I have short hair
because short hair means
I'll look too masculine
in the ninth grade I
had a pixie cut
faith
trust
pixie dust
I could feel
my light burning out
(I never did believe in myself)
if I'm not thin
starve
binge
purge
two finger diet
VSCO diet
have you seen
the lovely girls
on the internet
in their
tight bodysuits
Coke Zero
figures
MVP
VIP
they'll get first access
to his ****
if I'm a *****
cuz how will anyone know
what you've really
got to flaunt
when you have to wear
a uniform to school
frumpy plaid kilt
white polo shirt
every button a barrier
like the notches
on his belt
tie coiled
a noose
around your neck
every casual day
I wear fishnet stockings
***** necklines
with push up bras
even though
I'm already a D
cuz I gotta get that D
gotta compensate
for being a ****** somehow
if I don't shave my
legs
stomach
*****
three days before high school graduation
I bought a thong
and got my first Brazilian wax
even though I didn't have
still don't have
a boyfriend
but I wanted him
to be my boyfriend
thought I should be prepared
thought maybe when he saw me
clad in
cleavage
periwinkle
floor-length gown
blue Converse peeking out
from underneath the tulle
I'd be his
Belle of the Ball
that he'd
take me
**** me
love me
but how could any boy
ever love me
in all of my
warped-perspective
grief-possessive
passive-aggressive
self-obsessive
manic-depressive
glory
how could any boy
ever love me
after reading
this poem?
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
For background - read "The Frumpy Tale of Riley River Duck"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the frigid winters of June
With the snow scattering over the crystal lagoon
Puffy white frost pillows covered the ground
The sunshine making them glitter all around
Riley sat with a piping hot cup of tea
Conversing eloquently with Cecelia the flea
The happy duck sat, blankets covering her slick feathers
Helping her brave even the harshest weathers
Out of nowhere came a huge “thump”
Causing Riley to jump
She waddled to the window
Just to see a cloud of dust and kindle
An avalanche slowly slithered along
The beast heaved, wicked and strong
Flicking up ice, draping the sun with a gown
Speckling, flickering and finally glittering down
Outside came a muffled scream
It could’ve been from a dream
Riley rushed outside
With the sun her only guide
She saw a **** of snow wiggle and grow
How was anyone to know?
That the avalanche had awoken an animal
Cory the angry camel
See the snow and lumber
Woke him up from his slumber
Along with the snow, his temper seemed to grow
And his **** was in a frump
Riley waddled out
To settle this bout
She pleaded and reasoned him to see
That the snow was very fun to throw
All the animals of the Great Oak Tree crowded around the fight
Till the day turned into night
Cory was smiling and laughing, his mood lifted
As his big hooves sifted
He lifted up a snowball, and threw it into the sky
Riley could only watch it fly…
It hit her in the beak
So her mouth was too cold to speak
She looked in shock
As Cory ran amok
The camel had won the fight
Just as the day turned to night
The day came to an end
And Cory couldn’t help but pretend
That he wasn’t happy that he won
Throwing snow was very fun
Riley saved the day
In the late winters of May
She took Cory into her house
Quiet as a mouse….
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
The frumpy ragamuffin is discombobulated
And throws together an out fit
She dawns a fur coat in the middle of July
And begins to eat Alpo
She exfoliates her feet with a cheese grater
The top notch tuba player with a hook for a hand suffers from bed sores and an over active pituitary gland
I ask him what the difference is between reasons and excuses
He seems to be dancing around the question
But answers in a round about way
Implying that one is organic and natural while the other is genetically modified and man made
It's zero hour
As I look at the broken coo coo clocks
And the rainbow colored rocks
The ragamuffin presumptuously tells me that no one benefits from doubt
Then calls my friend a bed wetter
And tells us she must go to feed her Venus flytraps
She storms back towards her laboratory
I wonder what she could possibly do in there
I'm dying to know
I'm on the edge of my seat
With one foot in the grave
The tuba player returns wrapped in an electric blanket
He tells us he's just suffered from sleep paralysis
"It's a dead zone, can't get a signal"
He goes on to say that blind faith is is a stepping stone to the truth
A game of William Tell, a stab in the dark
A round of Blind man's bluff with Marco Polo
Testing the waters is a building block of wisdom
And a clean bill of health is corner stone of a happy life
That you have to pay for out of pocket when playing the field
And we are the choices we've made incarnate
Now, the ragamuffin and the tuba player come once more
To tell us the mind is as incorruptible as the soul
But the body will bow to time and wither away
They then walk backwards, back to where ever they came
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Weakness is a nuisance that travels
alongside everyone,
similar to the skin on their very backs-
It holds you down when you need to fly
and keeps you there in that
dark place
that you have tried so hard to escape from.
It turns those always-glimmering eyes
Into lumps of coal sunken in your face;
It rearranges that toothy grin into a less
than impressive frumpy slant
plastered below your nose.
Oh, don't you see? It turns your gleaming
aura into a dark, black vortex of emptiness.
Weakness is a nuisance that consumes you-
weakness is you.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
She'd slept bad.
Thoughts of John
invaded her head
as she lay in bed.
She'd hugged her
Teddy close; kissed
him pretending.
Stroked Teddy's
head, his arms,
kissed him repeatedly.
Her sister snored.
Her sister talked
in her sleep.
Elaine wished
for morning.
Wished for dawn's
light and birdsong;
wanted John there
in her bed;
in her head.
Breakfast was a chore;
she didn't want to eat;
her mother said
she had to: none of
that slimming nonsense.
She ate feeling full,
feeling ill.
Lovesick her
father said jokingly.
Her mother
was not amused,
said just a slimming thing.
Elaine ate and mused dully.
Wondered if John
would kiss her again.
Did she want him to?
She didn't know;
half yes, half no.
The kiss made her
feel out of her
comfort zone;
made her feel
unknown feelings;
buzzes in her *****
She sipped the lukewarm tea:
sugary sweet, drowned in milk.
Her sister chatted about boys
and what so and so did.
Her mother said boys
were not for breakfast talk.
Her father said Elaine
-his Frumpy hen-
didn't need to slim,
was OK as she was.
Elaine wanted John;
wanted a kiss;
wanted him to touch;
a little not over much.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC
Wonderland
by Michael R. Burch
We stood, kids of the Lamb, to put to test
the beatific anthems of the blessed,
the sentence of the martyr, and the pen’s
sincere religion. Magnified, the lens
shot back absurd reflections of each face—
a carnival-like mirror. In the space
between the silver backing and the glass,
we caught a glimpse of Joan, a frumpy lass
who never brushed her hair or teeth, and failed
to pass on GO, and frequently was jailed
for awe’s beliefs. Like Alice, she grew wee
to fit the door, then couldn’t lift the key.
We failed the test, and so the jury’s hung.
In Oz, “The Witch is Dead” ranks number one.
Keywords/Tags: Alice, Wonderland, Joan, Arc, martyr, blessed, beatific, religion, witch, Oz, carnival, mirror, lens, jury, kids, lamb, beliefs, faith, sonnet
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 3:22 AM UTC
He wrote in the mornings, she recited to him at night,
He always made breakfast, she made dishes disappear,
His garb was quite frumpy, and hers, made of spun gold,
He struggled with fashion, song birds would dress her,
He thought his poems looked best in moving candlelight,
She made all the fires and lit candles with her eyes.
Once, he was embarrassed and said to her,
'How can you live like this with me in a hovel?'
She said it reminded her of Plato's Cave.
At readings he looked out and saw sinking eyes,
Now he has her read all his poems, it works
Wonders that way, and after-parties are strange,
Everyone keeps staring and asking for her
Name. She gives cryptic answers and winks
At him. The poet was running out of words
And thought his days with her were waning.
But she said her heart was kept in a precious
Box of symbols, of words, only he could write.
She said that it was written in the sky, that poetry
Was dying and that he was the cure. He told
Her that the stars were lost at night, and fading
While she sparkled unfailing, and many times
They tasted each others tears, many times
The world stopped spinning, he knew
It was her, she felt it was him. To all
Others, their one bedroom flat was small,
Yet to them, it was the Palace Athene.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
i waited on you for weeks
calling and cooing
frumpy fighting
i need you to know
that heros hug
champions challenge
i waited to get wet
slippery and soapy
licking lickless
wounds
you
kick up your knee
gracefully and gently
hairy horror
firsted
hey
let me lead you
up siz-zag undulations of angles
gracefully grazing
carpet
us two
darling
let me lightly place you
upon the undone bed
shovel self in
down.pillows
dreaming
of each other
sweaty
and this is where im going to break the poetic form
youve told me. and i you. you know where and how
to find me when we are writhing and flipping around
and ill pick you up off the top of that news stand again
JUST JUMP i yell and you most certainly oblige once more
and that hug
that one that i was talking about earlier
the enclosure all encompassing
will be the act that save me from the last week
the goose pimple that perk all about
will make every single shift from thigh to knee relevant
propelling ourselves skyward and floating now
come with me
i know this one place
terrific tapas
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
Perhaps The Muse,
the White Goddess,
Erato, Melpomene,
Rhiannon, Ceridwen,
becomes, one day,
a late middle-aged
woman with
muffin-tops,
stuffed into
yoga pants she
should know better
than to wear
in public.
No matter.
Even frumpy,
she remains
divine, alluring,
luminescent,
beyond the
constraints of
mundane fashion,
the sharp edges
of mortal flesh,
Still whispering
beauty in the
awestruck
poet's ear.
~mce
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 4:39 AM UTC
I was dragged
out of trees, off ropeswings
away from friends
every single Sunday of my youth.
The big grey church
filled with frumpy hatted snobs
lit through windows covered
in incomprehensible verse
held neither wonder, peace nor fascination.
Long, agonising sits,
trying not to giggle with my brothers
and praying only for the ordeal to end
did little to fill me with reverence.
But there was a place.
There was a building in whose hallowed hush
I felt the truth of awe,
a place where universes were revealed,
imagination ignited,
questions answered clearly
and not with twenty tons of sludgy obfuscation.
The library.
I loved it even before I could read,
and afterwards, well -
it still seems incredible
that such a place could exist.
Time passes.
And the fact that the powdered old cows
can still fill the church each Sunday,
fill the collection plates,
sing their ****** songs and go,
while rows of empty shelves
gather dust in the ghost of the library
simply
makes me
want
to weep.
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 11:37 AM UTC
.
He wrote in the mornings, she recited to him at night,
He always made breakfast, she made dishes disappear,
His garb was quite frumpy, and hers, made of spun gold,
He struggled with fashion, song birds would dress her,
He thought his poems looked best in moving candlelight,
She made all the fires and lit candles with her eyes.
Once, he was embarrassed and said to her,
'How can you live like this with me in a hovel?'
She said it reminded her of Plato's Cave.
At readings he looked out and saw sinking eyes,
Now he has her read all his poems, it works
Wonders that way, and after-parties are strange,
Everyone keeps staring and asking for her
Name. She gives cryptic answers and winks
At him. The poet was running out of words
And thought his days with her were waning.
But she said her heart was kept in a precious
Box of symbols, of words, only he could write.
She said that it was written in the sky, that poetry
Was dying and that he was the cure. He told
Her that the stars were lost at night, and fading
While she sparkled unfailing, and many times
They tasted each others tears, many times
The world stopped spinning, he knew
It was her, she felt it was him. To all
Others, their one bedroom flat was small,
Yet to them, it was the Palace Athene.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 3:07 PM UTC
Dumpy semi-feminine somethings,
ambling rotund wrecks of time –
wraiths of increased girth and grayness;
womanhood unsublime…
Where the dignity in aging ?
Where a minimal decorum?
Could you not yet bear some vestige
presentable in public forum?
All I see are jowly short-hairs:
Dressed to dullness, clipped-face mean.
Form subsumed by frumpy function;
drab routine.
Surely God has taken vengeance
stealing thus your womanhood.
Is this sloth? Or liberation
…misunderstood.
Other cultures guard some glory,
seem to age with more élan:
picture nomads, desert queens
of Mythistan.
Chiseled faces, sculpted hard
by time and faith and fate and God
lines unsoftened by abundance
I applaud.
The Godless West lays waste to glory.
Is our ease of life to blame?
Casual geriatric matrons
bring us shame.
Is it North American only?
Is this just genetic traits?
All such mortal non-description
insults the fates.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
All the way
Down to the homemade earth
I feel and feel reality
Art is not a layer, it is the necklace on the neck
lacing the neck of the face
It has eyes it is so real it is a mirror
the child, all the way through the water to the most key most pure Nature
the deep so pure it is the most clearly brown
the light has never worn smooth and flawless, it is so dim so grey it is a shade of dark rock
it does not need beauty, it is beautiful
it does not need shielding, it is shaded from its mountain shadow
the land it's frumpy and a shade of dirt
the most thing is old
it is the most creative of us all, never drifting from little and big shapes
the sentiment, wonder, god will always taste it
he will not grow weary of the cliff view
they sky looks itself in the mirror
a bowl of ocean water
leaning over hands holding the east and west banks
Earth living on earth doesn't know
Earth tries to do the dishes there and sinks in
Sky chooses to wash his hands there instead of in the dirt
but discovers they are the same
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
Your Biggest Fan: A Hoadley Story
In the time of my life when dreams come true
When I was so immature and learning to live
Being an early adult is always so hard
And draining in ever-ry regard
With a glimpse of fate
And a gift to me
Came a beautiful princess
In a flowery summer-dress
I stumbled into your life, you stumbled into mine
With a shaky start you taught me so much
I grew and grew and thought it through really hard
And finally let down my guard
I fell back into the roses of being in your arms
And embraced the soft sweet scented petals
Where everything was beautiful
And I couldn’t help but feel dutiful
The soft colours and sweet scented world
That you’re so familiar with
Got brighter more and on display
When I began to see you every day
That little ember in my belly
Just below all the butter-flies
Exploded into a roaring fire
Filling me with a burning desire
I’d trap myself in a dream
As long as it’s just you and me
Where we’ll visit exotic lands
And be happy just holding hands
I want to protect you to never see you hurt
To never see your eyes turn grey
To never see tears roll down
Or to ever witness a frumpy frown
I’d shift that mood like the time in the car
When we sat and listened to Noah and the Whale
And we both thought the same thought
About the happiness each other brought
You’ll achieve everything you’ve ever dreamed
Your heart the real House of Hope
I believe in you so much you see
You really are the one for me
So smile for me it’s an amazing gift
One that asks for nothing back in return
I asked the gift of being your man
Because you see, I really am your biggest fan...
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
This cabin smells damp
Tucked away in the timber
Backroaded
Secluded
Welcome to Deer Camp
It was wintertime
And we had to ***
Into a tube in the wall
PVC
I’m at that awkward age
Not lanky
But frumpy and weird
So hand me a rifle
For the slaughter
Of a creature I revered
Man, what we do
To make our fathers proud
My secret was
I hated guns
And loved boys
I really only went on this trip
Because I heard that John
Grilled some mean potatoes
Accented with caramelized
Onions and garlic
The rumors were true
The fire crackles
Against a sky
Of light blue
I watched these men
Bearded and loud
Would I ever be like them?
Did I want to be?
My quiet heart
Felt alien
A freak
I wasn’t a hunter
Instead I gathered
A harvest of me
Thoughts and emotions
Into a cauldron
Of poetry
But I kept that part
Hidden
Tucked away
For another day
The men in their
Camouflage attire
Yawn as the sun sets
I try to fit
Into the cabin
We retire
The lantern’s light
Flickers across
The walls of the room
Sam’s Club candy
For dessert
Distant thunder
Booms
It was bedtime
And a storm was rolling
In the atmosphere and in
My head full of fear
Can someone please
Get me out of here
I cried from my cot
“Please take me home”
My dad glared
What a disappointing
Drive that was
Have I ever not
Let you down?
I think
As blankly ahead
I stared
We pull into the driveway
Ignition turns off
Headlamps extinguish
He unlocks the door
By the light of the moon
I feel
Relief and anguish
Mom was annoyed
This was supposed to be
Her weekend alone
Grieving the death
Of her own mother
She hugs me
While wiping
A tear from her
Cheekbone
Steel Magnolias
And a box of Kleenex
I ruined that
You brought a fairy
To deer camp
What did you expect?
Oct 1, 2022
Oct 1, 2022 at 12:54 AM UTC
He wrote in the mornings, she recited to him at night,
He always made breakfast, she made dishes disappear,
His garb was quite frumpy, and hers, made of spun gold,
He struggled with fashion, song birds would dress her,
He thought his poems looked best in moving candlelight,
She made all the fires and lit candles with her eyes.
Once, he was embarrassed and said to her,
'How can you live like this with me in a hovel?'
She said it reminded her of Plato's Cave.
At readings he looked out and saw sinking eyes,
Now he has her read all his poems, it works
Wonders that way, and after-parties are strange,
Everyone keeps staring and asking for her
Name. She gives cryptic answers and winks
At him. The poet was running out of words
And thought his days with her were waning.
But she said her heart was kept in a precious
Box of symbols, of words, only he could write.
She said that it was written in the sky, that poetry
Was dying and that he was the cure. He told
Her that the stars were lost at night, and fading
While she sparkled unfailing, and many times
They tasted each others tears, many times
The world stopped spinning, he knew
It was her, she felt it was him. To all
Others, their one bedroom flat was small,
Yet to them, it was the Palace Athene.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC